The scorpion appears, a mass of dark armor polished by nights of survival, its color blending with mud and rust, like a piece of living rock that has just crawled out of the depths of the earth.It moves with terrifying fluidity, unshaking or faltering, like a taut silk thread weaving its destiny across barren land. Its footsteps on the gravel are extremely cautious, not emitting a whisper, but a resounding silence that signals the approach of danger. Its dark brown dotted body stretches out like a brass rod, concealing within its folds the lightning speed of its two talons like two massive fists ready, not only to fight, but to seize the ultimate. Its curved tail swings, bearing at its end the fated stab. It is the mace of death, a weapon suspended between caution and lethality, waiting for the moment to pounce on whatever has accidentally fallen into its dark circle of surveillance.
🦂🤍🦂