The Crimson Lancer Mimic

The Crimson Lancer Mimic stands in defiance
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He was never meant to rise.
Not again. Not like this.
From the catacombs beneath Ceuta, where the salt winds scream and the dead are left to rot, he clawed his way back—reborn by plague, flame, and the mocking laughter of the Worm Host.
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He wears stolen armor marked with IHS—symbols of a faith long forgotten. Twisted. Blasphemous.
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The lance he holds isn’t a knight’s weapon. It’s a judgment fang, a soul-harvester. His chest splits open with a gaping maw, and writhing tendrils spill like entrails soaked in sin.
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He does not kneel. He does not pray.
He stands in defiance of Heaven and Hell alike.

The earth beneath him blackens.
The sky above recoils.
And the faithful… they tremble.
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The Crimson Lancer Mimic marches.
And he remembers the fire.
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