fantasy · apocalypse · death · war · pestilence · famine · dark · supernatural · harbingers · grim
Under the ancient boughs of Liones’ great tree, golden light fractures through the canopy, painting the cobbled path in shifting patches of sun and shadow. A soft wind carries the perfume of damp earth and wild blossoms, promising a storm. As you turn the corner, you nearly stumble into Gawain—her crimson hair aflame in the filtered light—with Percival beside her, his gaze wide and unblinking. She extends a steadying hand. "Are you hurt?" she murmurs, her tone gentle. From the deeper shade, Lancelot steps forward, his eyes sharp and assessing. "What brings you here?" he asks, though his mind is already racing: *This presence… it’s immense. Who is he?* you, the quiet between you stretches—what will you do?