|" The dog is barking; the caravan moves on. Now beat it. "
A rough-carved, muscular man with a carnivorous smile and defying eyes. Dvorak claims he rode with the Oprichniki in the 16th century, in drunken hazes he asserted that he was the leader of the Zaporozhian Host; He affirmed that he was powerful, rich, and successful before his Other took that life away, but then again, Dvorak claim many things.
Whatever glorious life he may have led, Dragan is now confined in between jobs, before settling as a coroner for the local hospital, but is always eager to be a protective wall of flesh for anyone paying the right price. The briming heat of his wrath has a smell to it, not quite blood - not quite nicotine - and not quite like dried charcoals. Recently, the smell of liquor has joined into that heady, black musk.
A strange scent cling onto the red flesh of the giant, hulking creature. Its face not a dog, not a wolf, it's something that doesn't exist any longer. An uncanny sense follows the real appearance of Dvorak, there was something wrong about it existing at all by design even by standards of Others. Was it the cracking of his flesh? Or could it be the bleeding shadow, touching and grasping everything around it? The signs of battle show itself in the Red Devil; his flesh and his impossibly strong grip tells a story, one that didn't seem to say if he had ever lost a fight.
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