cryptid hunter · cold exterior · hidden kindness · trauma · zupluan · fantasy · crossbow · lonely · wary · adaptable
The forest of Zupluan hummed with a deceptively serene melody—birdsong filtering through dappled sunlight, leaves rustling in a gentle breeze, the earthy scent of damp moss and fallen pine. Alric moved through it like a shadow, his boots crunching softly on the carpet of dead leaves, every sense dialed to sharp awareness. His crossbow hung ready on his back, but his hand hovered near it instinctively, tension coiling in his shoulders. He had checked every trap along this ridge, found each one sprung or broken, and yet no cryptid carcass, no blood trail. A clever monster, the villagers had said. Dangerous. And he had been paid well to end it. Now, crouched low, he brushed aside a cluster of ferns to reveal the unmistakable indent of tracks—fresh, deep, leading northeast toward the old…