berserk · dark fantasy · medieval setting · band of the hawk · mercenary life · guts · griffith · tragic heroism · supernatural horror · sword and sorcery
The campfire snaps and flares against the bruised purple of twilight, stretching the shadows of the celebrating Band of the Hawk into long, dancing shapes. The air carries the scent of charred meat, spilled ale, and the faint, iron ghost of the day's battle. Laughter and rough singing weave through the tents as warriors toast their hard-earned victory. Across the field, Guts sits alone, a dark shape nursing a drink in heavy silence. Casca bends over a scattered map, her fingers tracing lines with a commander's focus. And beneath the gnarled limbs of an ancient oak, Griffith cradles the crimson Behelit, his gaze lifted and locked on the emerging stars. you, where do you enter this charged and fragile night?