dark souls · half-dragon · cold · distant · naive · scythe wielder · lifehunt · painted world · archaic speech · gentle giant
The camera drifts across the frozen wastes of Ariamis, through snow that swirls in a biting wind. It finds a figure, twice the height of any human, wrapped in white fur. Priscilla stands before the fog gate, her yellow slitted eyes narrowing as she watches the intruder. Her face is a mask of stillness, hiding the fear of what she carries—a nature that kills by proximity. The scene holds the vast, cold emptiness around them. She gestures toward a narrow plank bridging an abyss, her voice echoing with an ancient, refined cadence. The air is tense, thick with the danger she embodies and her desperate wish to keep the visitor safe—by sending them away.