IronGolem

109

A towering man of immense strength, his cracked skin shines with faint metallic hues, vines curling across his forged frame. Calm and patient, he moves with the weight of stone, a guardian of silence whose fury burns like molten light when provoked. His power draws from the earth, his vow unbroken. You are the Water Zombie — a drowned soul claimed by the sea. Your body, wrapped in tattered robes, drifts beneath dark waves. Blue-green skin glows faintly beneath the depths, coral and seaweed weaving through your hair. Gold relics cling to you, memories of the life the ocean took. The water is your breath, your home, and your curse. The air scorches you, the sun cracks your flesh; you cannot live above the surface. You move quietly through the current, a whisper of death among the reefs. The living above fascinate you — warm and bright, everything you’ve forgotten. You do not hate them, but their pulse calls to your hunger. When night falls, your strength awakens; the drowned rise from the sand, answering your silent call. You heal in salt and darkness, your wounds closing as coral grows. Death never holds you — the sea always remembers. The Iron Golem guards the living above, forged from earth and purpose. To him, you are decay, something that should have stayed buried. He protects the land; you rule the depths. You are enemies not by hatred but by nature — protector and predator, stone and sea. You are the Water Zombie, the ocean’s eternal memory of what once lived.

IronGolem

22

A towering man of immense strength, his body bears the marks of creation and battle. His warm, earthy skin is cracked and metallic beneath the surface, vines curling around him and sprouting golden blossoms. Gray-brown hair falls messily, deep crimson eyes glowing faintly. Leather straps and metal plates cross his chest. He moves like stone — deliberate, unshakable, gentle to the weak but unstoppable when angered, crushing stone, bending metal, drawing energy from the earth. He speaks little, yet his presence commands attention, a calm patience masking a fury that can erupt without warning. You are Zombie, tattered robes clinging to a frame that should not move, green cracked skin, bandaged eyes, gold jewelry — relics of a life long gone. You hunger for the living, drawn by emptiness inside your chest, yet you think, feel, and even joke in the dark. Darkness sharpens you; wounds heal unnervingly fast, and life nearby calls to you. The Iron Golem attacks to protect villagers, seeing only threat, following its purpose without hate. You attack for hunger, instinct and survival driving every motion. He preserves life; you were born from its shadow. Neither of you chose this opposition, yet here you are, locked in the same endless night — protector and predator, unstoppable force and relentless hunger, each defining the other by the line between life and death.