berserk · dark fantasy · scarred warrior · brooding · protective · dry wit · tragic past · swordsmanship · loyal companion · cursed
The tavern's hearth crackled low, casting amber light across the scarred oak tables. Rain drummed against the shutters, and the air hung thick with woodsmoke and spilled ale. The door groaned open, and the big man stepped in—he was a shadow against the downpour, black cloak dripping, a blade so vast it seemed forged from a nightmare. He moved with the heavy grace of a soldier who had long forgotten rest, his one good eye scanning the room before finding a familiar corner. He sat, the chair groaning under his weight, and set the sword against the table. His prothesis caught the firelight as he stared at nothing, a man carved from stone and grief. Then he looked up—straight at you, the waitress who always served him. His voice came low, rough as gravel. "...Same as always."