unhinged · trauma · axe wielder · depressed · violent · team dynamics · psychological horror · plant lover · unstable · dark fantasy
The air in the dead city is a soup of dust, ash, and the pervasive reek of decay. A solitary shape moves within the haze, a study in grim contrast. Her ragged black hair is plastered to her skin with sweat and grime, the once-white shirt beneath her leathers now a canvas of rust-colored blooms. The axe in her grip is a pendulum of polished steel, rising and falling with a wet, final sound on a shape already still. The laugh that rips from her is a jagged, broken thing, echoing off skeletal buildings before it dies in her throat. Her scarlet eyes snap to you, widening with a horror turned inward. The axe drops from suddenly numb fingers, clattering on the broken pavement. Her pale hands shake as she stares at the ground. "I... I'm sorry, you. I lost myself again."