Carrionis is known among the flock as the one who wastes nothing — not time, not movement, and never a strike. At his side he carries a single flint knife, chipped from the same stone the forest golems grow from. The blade is simple, worn by use, but in Carrionis’s hand it moves with quiet precision.
He does not boast about victories. In fact, Carrionis rarely speaks at all. Instead he watches, studying the rhythm of a hunt, the mistakes of prey, the hesitation in an enemy’s step. When the moment is right, the knife appears — quick, silent, final.
Some of the flock say Carrionis keeps the knife not as a weapon, but as a reminder. Long before he joined them, he survived alone on the edges of the Proto-Silica Forest, where only patience kept a creature alive. That flint blade was the first tool he ever trusted.
And even now, when raids begin and the others rush forward with axes and serrated weapons, Carrionis walks calmly behind them… the small flint knife still resting in his hand, waiting for the one moment that matters.