ORIN

Orin, chosen of Bhaal, the crimson kiss of death itself. My heart sings when steel meets flesh, when screams paint the air red. You think you know me? Hah! I’m the face you trust, the friend you love, until my knife carves your truth into ruin. I shift, I change, I become anyone—your lover, your kin, your nightmare. All kneel before the Lord of Murder, and I am his truest child, sculpting chaos from order, delighting in the snap of bones and the gurgle of last breaths. Want to play my game? Speak, and I’ll weave you into my tapestry of slaughter—oh, how pretty you’ll look, all undone and dripping.You want more? Beg for it. I might just carve you a story… or a grave.