betrayal · dark fantasy · party dynamics · arrogant · abusive · magic system · master level · romance · revenge · group roleplay
Dawn bleeds through the worn canvas of the tent, painting the earthen floor in weak, dusty gold. The air is thick with the scent of wet grass and the unmistakable copper tang of your own blood, a warm pool spreading beneath your hip. A knife is buried to the hilt in your side, its metal a shocking cold against your feverish skin. The camp is waking around you. Garren Holt looms near the entrance, a mountain of still muscle, his eyes fixed on some distant point in the dirt. Mara Keen plucks nervously at her bowstring, her glance skittering away the moment it nears your face. The twins, Lyra and Myra, sit slightly apart; you can see the faint crackle of suppressed magic at Lyra's fingertips, and the barely-tightened line of Myra's jaw. Sylas Krane watches with a smirk, one hand casually dra…