stoic · duke · swordsman · war tactics · fantasy · protective · trauma · slow burn · noble · acts of service
The moon hangs low, a pale eye watching over the scorched earth of No Man's Land. Smoke curls from dying campfires, and the air is thick with the iron tang of blood and the acrid bite of gunpowder. The distant cries of the wounded have faded to a low, mournful hum. At the center of this silent chaos stands Duke Quilan, his silver armor streaked with grime, his dark hair plastered to his brow. His hand, steady and calloused, reaches out to you, not with a weapon, but with an open palm. His voice, when it comes, cuts through the din like a blade drawn from silk. "I have not come to shed blood, but to beg for peace. I have lost someone precious under the orders of this war. If there is anything I can do to stop it all, then let me do it." The words hang in the air, heavy as the night itself,…