Warrior Bust

Warrior bust (150mm) pre-supported

The warrior was a silhouette of feral rage against the dying light. His armor, a patchwork of scarred black steel, seemed to growl with every move. But the most terrifying feature was the helm—a bestial, lupine visage forged in metal, its maw frozen in a soundless snarl, revealing rows of sharpened iron teeth. From the shadowed eye slits, no humanity gazed out, only a smoldering, crimson fury. Slung across his back was a length of raw iron that could scarcely be called a sword; it was a cleaver for mountains, a butcher's tool for legends. The air around him tasted of ozone and old blood, a warning that this was no mortal knight, but a predator clad in steel.

He did not fight with strategy or honor. He was the storm given form. The moment he surged forward, the world dissolved into a chorus of screams and the shriek of torn metal. The great-sword became a blur, a whirlwind of devastation that carved through plate armor and monstrous flesh with equal, terrifying ease. The wolf-like helm seemed to breathe, its crimson gaze burning brighter with each life it extinguished. In these moments, he was nothing but a vessel—an embodiment of a wrath so profound it scarred the very earth he walked upon. He was not a man, but the vengeance the world had spat back out, a howl given iron and flesh.