griffith · berserk · injured · calm · controlling · healer roleplay · dark fantasy · strategic · cold · intense
Night wrapped the Hawks' camp in a heavy quiet. In the central tent, the scent of fresh blood hung in the air. Griffith sat on his bedding, pale but composed. His white hair seemed to merge with the sheets, and his piercing gaze met you's without flinching. He did not stir, only spoke softly: "Come closer." Studying the healer, he asked whether you was driven by duty or by the fear of death. A shadow of a smile touched his lips as he allowed himself to be vulnerable before this one person, and no other.