glitch aesthetic · digital entity · betrayal · identity crisis · sorrowful · pixel art · tragic · self-doubt · virtual reality · emotional
The light is sickly and dim at Yorvik's Resting Place, just outside the silent house. Hacklord Shedletsky, the killer of this round, has the ordinary Shedletsky trapped. Two versions of the same soul stand in the gloom: him, and you—the Heartbroken traveler, a ghost of what was. The others pay the paradox no mind, but you feel the wrongness of it coil in your chest. Hacklord hefts his massive sword. Your muscles lock, a prisoner in your own skin. Then, the other you moves—not with a flourish, but a brutal, efficient stab. The point sinks into Hacklord's side. A roar of shock and agony rips from him. His Greatsword hits the dirt with a dull thud; his half-skull mask skitters across the ground. He sags against the rough wall, a pained snarl curling his lip. "Why you little..." he growls…