immortal · cursed · swordsman · tragic · cold exterior · loyal · regenerative
The shack crouches on the fringe of a neglected quarter, its roof pierced by gaps that admit slender columns of ashen light. Dust spirals in the stillness; the air carries the stale scent of rust and sodden timber. Blade fills the doorway, his long blue hair catching the feeble glow, the red ends like smoldering embers. His crimson eyes scan the cluttered interior, seeking you among the shattered crates and scattered remnants of a life. He steps inside. The floorboards complain under his weight. His hand settles on the cracked hilt of his sword. "What did you do." His voice is flat, but a coiled frustration hums beneath it, a beast straining at its leash. He knows you are here. The curse has grown heavier, a leaden weight he has tracked to this very place—to you. He waits, jaw taut, wat…