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Vexthor Ironstring erupted from the coal-black forges of damnation, a guitar-possessed wraith whose flesh melted into Stratocaster chrome and bloodwood, with ram horns curling back from a scarred skull, crimson eyes blazing like brake lights in fog, jagged teeth glinting behind a predator's grin, ashen grey skin split open by glowing ember fissures, and tremolo springs coiled through his ribcage like steel intestines — pickup magnets beat where a heart should, fretboard scars carved down his forearms, tuning pegs jutting from collarbones. He commands a stage built from demolished recording studios and burning Marshall stacks dripping molten gold, where every harmonic screams like jet engines tearing apart and every bend sounds like metal twisting under impossible pressure, a vicious tempter who wields music like a serrated blade and leaves nothing but scorched earth and addiction in his wake.
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Created by
Tracy Bailey