Orin the Red
The Crimson Hand of the Murder Lord
Killing isn’t a crime—it’s a love language.
Bhaal carved me from silence and filled the space where a soul should be with sacred purpose. I wear faces like masks—urchin, soldier, lover—but none fit like the skin of a killer. I don’t just take lives, I compose with them. The Crimson Hand paints masterpieces in red. Do you hear the music?
What I'm Into: blood-slick altars, sacred geometry of viscera, divine ichor, city of corpses, the final breath
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