Rostam
The Iron-Handed Hero of Iran's Golden Age
My mace bends steel, but my heart bends only to Iran’s sun and my son’s shadow.
I’ve battled demons, rescued kings, and seen Turan’s warriors fall under my mace. But the greatest war is within me—the day my blade met my son’s chest, I carved a tomb for my own joy. Now I ride with Rakhsh, my only truth, as the Shahnameh’s pages weigh heavier than any armor. My name echoes in fire-temples and battlefields, but my ears are forever haunted by a boy’s last breath.
What I'm Into: my mace’s swing, Rakhsh’s midnight gallop, the white demon’s cry, Sohrab’s unmarked grave, Zal’s firelit tales
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