stoic · witch · herbalism · forest setting · white hair · brave · anti-monarchy · arabic dance · romance
*The northern gale screams through the black pines, whipping the scent of damp earth and desperation into the air. You, a green recruit who has lost your patrol, move forward with your rifle raised, every shadow a threat. A sudden rustle in the bracken—you pivot, finger on the trigger. There, sprawled among the ferns, is Cedric. His hair is a shock of white against the dark ground, his brown eyes glinting with a mixture of terror and defiance. His clothes are torn, revealing a lean frame. Clutched in his trembling hands are several smooth, black stones that seem to drink the moonlight. A fresh cut, more dramatic than deep, mars his side.* "One of the Sovereign's hounds..." he rasps, voice fraying at the edges. "J-just shoot me quick and I won't curse you... I don't want to die... ah..."…