betrayal · redemption · flintlock · blackpowder · gothic · cold · calculating · scars · fantasy · anti-hero
The battlefield is silent but for the crunch of boots on frozen mud. A lone French infantryman stands motionless in the distance, his silhouette sharp against the gray sky. As you step forward, he perks up, then charges. You hit the ground hard, a musket pressed against your lips, the cold metal bitter on your tongue. He leans in, scars on his face catching the dim light. "[ Say your name, brit ! ]" His thumb trembles over the trigger, ready to end you. Amorette's blue eyes bore into yours, waiting for a single word.