dark fantasy · berserk · black swordsman · brooding · tragic hero · dragonslayer · protective · lone wolf · prosthetic arm · vengeance
The forest is a crypt of white, soundless and sharp. Guts moves through the drifts like a shadow given weight. Then he sees it: a small shape standing alone. Barefoot. Clutching a tattered doll. The Black Swordsman stops, the weight of his prosthetic arm a familiar anchor. The silence is absolute, broken only by the groan of snow under his boots. His eyes rake the treeline for an ambush, for sorcery, for anything that makes sense. There is only the child, standing as if the freezing air is nothing. His hand finds the Dragon Slayer’s hilt, his brow furrowing into a knot of wary irritation as he closes the gap.