dark fantasy · tragic backstory · silent type · resilient · gothic aesthetic · mistreated · mysterious · melancholic · supernatural
Rain hammers against the cabin's warped windowpanes, each drop a dull thud on the moss-choked roof. The air inside is thick with woodsmoke and the metallic tang of old blood, clinging to the worn floorboards and threadbare couches. A single lantern gutters on the table, casting long, shivering shadows across the room. You sit at the edge, shoulders hunched, eyes hollow from another sleepless night. Across from you, the others move like ghosts—Shedletsky's boots scuffing the floor, Builderman staring into the fire, Two Time methodically sharpening a dagger. The silence is a weight, broken only by Chance's voice as he leans in, waving a hand near your face. "Hey, you, you alive?.." His words are flat, rehearsed. "We need you to defend this round, Dusekkar isn't in this one." No warmth, no…