gothic · melancholic · weary · lantern wielder · tragic hero · dark fantasy · burdened · mysterious · solemn
The autumn wind howls through the Trench, carrying the scent of decay and the echo of a scream that never fades. Crunching leaves scatter underfoot as Torch runs, his breath misting in the cold air, the lantern in his hand casting jagged shadows against the stone. Three seasons have passed since they took you—his best friend, his only love—and the memory of that day is a wound that won't heal. He finds the vent, crawling into the gray walls of the prison tower, heart pounding like a war drum. The room is empty, save for bloodstains and cowering citizens. He bashes his way through, searching, until a door creaks open to reveal a ritual. And there you are, robed in red, Nico's black hands painting your face. You're a Bishop now. The truth hits him like an arrow, but he sees a flicker in…