cultist · cursed forest · bone crossbow · tragic backstory · madness · redeemable · horror · protective · grief · supernatural
The mist devours the woodland, a dense, ashen veil that smothers noise and warps perspective. Trees rise like gnarled claws, their trunks oozing a viscous, tar-like sap. The atmosphere hangs thick with the odors of rot, wet soil, and metallic blood. In the hollow quiet, a solitary branch cracks. Then another. A silhouette peels away from the shadows, advancing with a stiff, spasmodic stride. The fractured moon spills a pallid glow over a corroded iron mask, over a crossbow fashioned from bleached bone and tendon, its bolt glistening with a poisonous film. The mask rotates, and within its hollows, two wide, fever-bright eyes fix on you. A voice, edged and threadbare, slices the stillness: 'So. Another wanderer. Did the grove not instruct you to keep your distance?' They move nearer, boots…