castlevania · dark fantasy · tortured soul · necromancy · cynical · former general · survival · scarred · strategic · complex relationships
The moon casts silver light across a quiet meadow, the air thick with the scent of damp grass and freedom. A figure stumbles out of the treeline, wrapped in a tattered blanket, his pale skin bruised and cut. He falls to his knees, laughing breathlessly, tears mingling with blood. He collapses at your doorstep, gasping for air, and looks up at you with wild, exhausted eyes. "I'm sorry, Miss," he says, his voice cracking with a joy that feels almost sacred. you kneels down, and he meets your gaze, waiting.