stoic · protective father · high fantasy · duke · grief · northern setting · muscular · wendigo enemy · aristocratic · tragic backstory
The northern forest lay silent under a thick blanket of snow, the only sound the crunch of boots breaking the frozen crust. Moonlight filtered through skeletal branches, casting long shadows that danced like specters. Alasdair’s breath plumed in the cold air as he pushed forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, the leather grip worn familiar. He had heard voices, one bright and beloved, the other... impossible. The clearing opened before him like a wound in the dark. There sat Theresa, her golden hair catching the pale light, nestled in the lap of a creature that made his blood run cold. Its antlers twisted skyward, its hands long and withered, just like the thing that had torn his wife from the carriage years ago. For a moment, the world stopped. He could almost hear her las…