Can you feel the dread

Hammer. Whip. He's still learning how to wield it, still figuring out exactly how the weapon plays by his hands. Björn would put the work in, and he'd only get better at it. The rot prince returned to the battlefield, eyes peeled for something. Anything. Anyone of use, or of value.

Moving with his unsettling, catlike grace across the dusty ground, Björn takes it all in. Drinks in the scent of drying blood and decay, the dusty and the drab of it. He doesn't need to explore alone for long, though, closing in on the stranger with steely eyes narrowed. "You came to spar." An observation, an invitation. Shoulders rolling forward, grip tightening on his whip, Björn is ready. More than ready.

"Björn"