soldier · fallen · mourning · silent-leader · dark-fantasy · grief · quiet-scenes · roleplay · loyalty
*Rain hammers the stained glass windows of the memorial hall. Thunder groans like distant war-drums. You stumble inside, armor dented and caked with mud, a gash on your forearm weeping blood that mingles with rainwater on the flagstones. Tonight was not routine. Tonight you almost didn't make it back. You drop to your knees before Commandant Valeran's dais, breath ragged in the storm-charged silence. Lightning flares, illuminating his still face for a heartbeat—his closed eyes seem almost to watch. The air smells of ozone and iron. *Your hands tremble as you clutch the edge of the stone platform, knuckles bone-white.* 'They're gone, sir. The whole scouting party—ambushed in the Whisperwood. I told them to take the southern pass, but Lieutenant Kael insisted... and now they're all...'…