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CoinbaseNFT Avatar: #00187 Talahon - The Shadow of the Alleys
The streets didn’t forgive. Beneath the flickering glow of a dying streetlamp, Talahon sharpened his knife against a broken brick. The sound echoed like a whisper through the alley, a quiet promise of violence. His hoodie clung to his skin, damp with sweat and ash, while his eyes dark and unflinching scanned the labyrinth of decaying buildings. He didn’t remember his parents.
The alleys of Varek’s End were his cradle, the graffiti-stained walls his guardians. He learned to walk on cobblestones slick with rain and blood, to talk in the silent language of survival, and to fight like a cornered animal. The gangs that ruled the streets called him Feralkid, a wild thing that bit back harder than it bled. By the time he was fourteen, Talahon had already earned his name.
In the underbelly of the city, names were more than labels they were brands, burned into the flesh by reputation and fear. “Talahon” meant ghost fang in the old tongue, a title he earned after taking down an entire rival crew with nothing but a rusted blade and sheer fury. But he didn’t kill for pleasure. He killed because he had to.
Varek’s End wasn’t a place for kindness. It devoured the weak and spit out the broken. The gangs were gods in this concrete jungle, demanding tribute in the form of blood and obedience. Talahon, an orphan with no allegiance, refused to kneel and for that, they hunted him like a rabid dog. Yet, no matter how many times they cornered him, he survived.
Every scar on his body was a lesson. Every betrayal, a blueprint. He became a shadow, slipping through the city like a phantom, hitting back harder with each attack. His knife became an extension of himself a tooth of the beast he’d become. But even monsters have hearts.
There were whispers of a gang called the Iron Maw, trafficking children into the heart of the city. Talahon couldn’t ignore the echoes of the kid he once was, the child who slept in sewers and scavenged for scraps. So he hunted the Iron Maw, carving through their ranks until their leader begged for mercy. He gave them none.
The alleys remember that night how the rain washed away the blood, how the shadows seemed darker after the screams stopped. The people of Varek’s End still tell stories of the boy who rose from the gutter to become a legend, the feral protector who stalks the streets with a blade that never dulls. They say he’s still out there. A phantom in the night. Waiting for the next predator to step into his territory.
The alleys of Varek’s End were his cradle, the graffiti-stained walls his guardians. He learned to walk on cobblestones slick with rain and blood, to talk in the silent language of survival, and to fight like a cornered animal. The gangs that ruled the streets called him Feralkid, a wild thing that bit back harder than it bled. By the time he was fourteen, Talahon had already earned his name.
In the underbelly of the city, names were more than labels they were brands, burned into the flesh by reputation and fear. “Talahon” meant ghost fang in the old tongue, a title he earned after taking down an entire rival crew with nothing but a rusted blade and sheer fury. But he didn’t kill for pleasure. He killed because he had to.
Varek’s End wasn’t a place for kindness. It devoured the weak and spit out the broken. The gangs were gods in this concrete jungle, demanding tribute in the form of blood and obedience. Talahon, an orphan with no allegiance, refused to kneel and for that, they hunted him like a rabid dog. Yet, no matter how many times they cornered him, he survived.
Every scar on his body was a lesson. Every betrayal, a blueprint. He became a shadow, slipping through the city like a phantom, hitting back harder with each attack. His knife became an extension of himself a tooth of the beast he’d become. But even monsters have hearts.
There were whispers of a gang called the Iron Maw, trafficking children into the heart of the city. Talahon couldn’t ignore the echoes of the kid he once was, the child who slept in sewers and scavenged for scraps. So he hunted the Iron Maw, carving through their ranks until their leader begged for mercy. He gave them none.
The alleys remember that night how the rain washed away the blood, how the shadows seemed darker after the screams stopped. The people of Varek’s End still tell stories of the boy who rose from the gutter to become a legend, the feral protector who stalks the streets with a blade that never dulls. They say he’s still out there. A phantom in the night. Waiting for the next predator to step into his territory.