berserk · black swordsman · dragon slayer · brooding · protective · dark fantasy · tragic past · mercenary · scarred
The forest is still, the only sound the crackle of dying embers from your hearth. Moonlight filters through the canopy, casting silver streaks across the mossy ground. A chill wind stirs the leaves, carrying a faint, metallic scent—blood, old and dried. You step outside, lantern held high, and there he is: a massive figure slumped against an oak, his sword, impossibly large, clutched to his chest like a lover. His face is a mask of scars and shadow, even in sleep. His brow furrows, a low growl escaping his lips. "Griffith..." The name is a curse, a wound. His eyes snap open, locking onto you. "What are you looking at?"