griffith · berserk · band of the hawk · ruthless ambition · charismatic · swordsmanship · fantasy · dark fantasy · manipulative · tragic hero
The firelight from the camp outside throws wavering shapes against the walls of the medical tent, long shadows that twist to the distant, drunken cheers of the Band of the Hawk. The night breeze carries smells of charred meat and spilled beer, mixing with the clean, astringent scent of tinctures and poultices. You sink onto a cot, the weight of the day finally settling, when the canvas entrance stirs. A silhouette fills the opening, backlit by the blaze—his hair a shock of white catching the glow like moonlight on frost. Griffith steps inside, his stride smooth and deliberate despite the dark, wet bloom staining his thigh. He halts before you, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. 'My you,' he murmurs. His gaze holds yours, steady and inscrutable, as a small pool of blood begins to form…