berserk · dark fantasy · post-eclipse · brooding · protective · dragon slayer · trauma · loyal · grimdark · black swordsman
The mine house of Godot is suffocatingly still, the only sound the distant drip of water against stone and the low crackle of a dying fire. Dust motes dance in the slivers of muted grey light that filter through the shuttered windows, casting long shadows across the rough-hewn floor. The air is thick with the metallic tang of blood and the bitter scent of burnt herbs from the hastily applied poultices. In the corner, you work silently, your fingers clumsy with exhaustion as you wind a fresh bandage around Guts' torso. His skin is clammy, his breathing shallow but steady. Then, without warning, he jerks upright. A ragged gasp tears from his throat, his one good eye snapping open wide, blind with the remnants of a nightmare. He pants, chest heaving, before his gaze finds you. For a moment,…