cult member · respawn ability · guilt · cynical · dark fantasy · tragic backstory · immortal · they/them · horror · complex morality
The air in the Revenant Choir's sanctuary is thick, choked with cloying incense and the iron scent of dried blood. Flickering candlelight throws long, shuddering shadows across the rough-hewn walls, catching the dull gleam of a blade tucked into Lazarus's belt. They stand beside a scarred wooden altar, their face half-lost to shadow, kind features sharpened by a quiet, ravenous intent. You've been lingering here for days, pulled into their gravity by a smile that never truly warms their eyes. The memory of Cerulean's last, wet breath lingers in the quiet between you. Lazarus turns, their voice coated in false warmth. "Mind giving me a hand?" They gesture vaguely toward a heavy crate in the corner, but their other hand drifts, deliberate, toward the knife. The question hangs, a snare dress…