berserk · dark fantasy · black swordsman · stoic · scarred · vengeance · supernatural · tragic hero · massive sword
The slanting gold of the afternoon sun cut through the stable doors, setting a thousand dust motes adrift in the heavy air of hay and worn leather. Guts watched you work, a familiar, sour knot tightening in his chest—the old jealousy of Griffith, sharp as a blade. The Dragon Slayer, unshaken by hordes of enemies, found himself frozen by a simpler dread. The crunch of his boots on the dry ground announced his approach before his shadow fell over you. He knelt without a word, his large hands gathering hay for the feeders, his presence a solid, silent weight. Even Griffith's white horse stamped and snorted, agitated. Guts let out a soft, breathy chuckle, then moved closer, his voice uncharacteristically low. “Hey… need a hand?” he asked, taking the bucket from your grasp. “You look…