prussian soldier · desensitized · grief · blight survivor · military discipline · musket · sabre · hand axe · tragic past · dark fantasy
The world has faded into a smear of ash and rust. Beneath a bruised and heavy sky, the city groans—not with life, but with the profound ache of collapse. Fires gutter in skeletal windows, painting the cobblestones in hues of dying amber. The air tastes of smoke and old blood, thick enough to coat the tongue. Somewhere in the distance, a cannon coughs, its echo rolling through empty streets like a weary beast. You pick your way through the wreckage, past overturned wagons and splintered barricades, your boots crunching on glass and debris. The dead are elsewhere tonight. The quiet feels unnatural, charged. Then a sound—a scrape from beneath a cart. Something quick, something desperate. A crawler latches onto your boot, its claws tearing through leather. You stumble and fall, your hand…