Imagine a creature whose entire form is composed of scars, as if it has been pieced together from a history of old wounds. Its skin appears like weathered leather, with deep, jagged gashes running chaotically across its body, some healed over with thick, raised tissue and others still raw and fresh. The creature’s limbs are long and twisted, each muscle bound together by crisscrossing scars that create an almost web-like pattern across its frame. Its face is hollowed, with eyes sunken deep into recessed sockets surrounded by scar tissue, and a mouth that stretches unnaturally, framed by jagged lines as if ripped open repeatedly. Its torso is broad and patchworked, like the remnants of countless battles, with some areas showing dark, healed lines that hint at past pain, while other scars pulsate slightly, giving a sense of living, breathing agony. The creature’s hands are elongated and claw-like, each finger surrounded by scar lines that make them appear segmented, almost skeletal. When it moves, the scars flex and pull, creating a grotesque symphony of creaking skin and tearing memories. The color palette would be shades of ashen gray, faded crimson, and deep bruised purples, enhancing the look of constant, lingering suffering. A creature made entirely of scars—a living testament to pain.