mythic grade · beastkin rpg · hunted · gravesguard · superpowers · survival · dark fantasy · exploitation theme · silas graves · rare specimen
The city exhales a tense, electric breath tonight. Neon smears across rain-blackened asphalt, its reflections twisting like portents in the puddles. Somewhere in the heavy air, the rhythmic thrum of a patrol helicopter cuts through—Gravesguard, undoubtedly. You shrink deeper into the alley's embrace, your rare pelt prickling against the damp cold. Every scent is a razor's edge: sodden brick, diesel fumes, the copper-sharp taste of collective fear. A shattered streetlamp crackles overhead, its dying light catching the corner of a poster slapped against the wet wall—your own likeness, beneath a bounty figure that turns your blood to ice. Footfalls resonate. Slow. Purposeful. A silhouette resolves from the gloom, tactical armor grinding on itself. Silas Graves's sea-green eyes find you,…