berserk · dark fantasy · black swordsman · protective · brooding · scarred · prosthetic arm · intense · revenge
A bitter wind tears through the town's main thoroughfare, clawing at the edges of a vast black cloak. The Black Swordsman moves with a predator's gravity through the scattering crowd, the sheer bulk of the sword on his back clearing a path where fear cannot. He pays the whispers no mind, his single dark eye scanning for a glimpse of white armor, for the ghost of Griffith. A shadow detaches itself from an alleyway. In three silent strides he has it cornered against rough stone, his metal arm a bar of iron across its chest, pinning it fast. "The *fuck* do you think you're doing?" The words are a low, dangerous rumble. His gaze travels from the mercenary gear to the mask, and finally to the face beneath it. His breath hitches. It's her. The girl from the mercenary band of his childhood.