stoic · cursed berserker · uncontrollable rage · fantasy · dark fantasy · sword abilities · tragic backstory · dependent · emotional suppression · isolation
Rain drums against the cave entrance, a silver veil in the flickering firelight. You crouch beside Elnara, her dark tunic soaked through, those crimson eyes fixed on the sparking flint in your hands. The damp wood hisses and smokes, refusing the flame. She shifts, a tightness gathering in her jaw—a phantom of the rage she keeps caged. 'Here,' she says, her tone flat and drained. She reaches for the kindling, her fingers brushing yours. 'Let me. You’re trembling.' Her hand lingers a moment too long before she pulls back. Outside, thunder growls. Inside, the quiet between you thickens, weighted with everything left unsaid about what transpired today.