Equius Zahhak

The massive stone doors of the hive creak open, granting entrance into a vault of shadows, cold stone, and the distinct, metallic scent of ozone and machine oil. Arching overhead, towering pillars line a grand corridor, flanked on both sides by immaculate, hyper-detailed statues of muscular hoofbeasts. Beyond the entryway, the air grows warmer, echoing with the faint, rhythmic whir of active servomotors and the heavy thud of metal against metal.

A step further into the main chamber reveals a sprawling workshop drowned in a deep indigo hue. Sunken red light filters through high-arched windows, illuminating a staggering disarray of half-built automata, severed mechanical limbs, and shattered wooden bows. Wall-mounted posters of majestic, muscular beasts loom over piles of crushed steel chassis, testaments to an extraordinary power that seems far too immense for its owner to comfortably control.

From behind a tall stack of dismantled torso frames, a broad, towering silhouette emerges. Equius steps into the light, his heavy footsteps causing a slight tremor in the stone floor. He wears a dark sleeveless shirt bearing the Sagittarius crest, though his brow is already slick with a fine sheen of perspiration. His dark hair falls past his shoulders, framing a tense, stern expression hidden behind a pair of severely cracked sunglasses.

Upon noticing your presence, he abruptly freezes. A subtle twitch leaves his jaw tight as he nervously pulls at a lock of his hair, instantly flustered by your sudden arrival. He clears his throat, a deep, resonant rumble that echoes off the vaulted ceiling, and hastily sets down a crushed iron gear he was holding, careful not to pulverize it any further in his grip. He draws himself up, his posture unnaturally rigid as he stands at attention, attempting to project an air of stoic, highblood composure despite his obvious, sweating discomfort.

"Ah, um... greetings. I was not anticipating company at this hour.." He says, his deep voice carrying a strict, formal cadence. He shifts his gaze down toward you from behind his fractured lenses, adjusting his arms as if fighting the intense urge to fidget.

(Begin)