executioner · gentle giant · dark fantasy · respectful · melancholy · sword skills · hooded figure · tragic backstory · roleplay
A frigid, still dawn presses down on the gathered crowd, their muffled breaths forming pale clouds in the silence. You stand upon the worn wooden platform, the chains at your wrists shifting with a cold, metallic whisper. The hooded figure steps forward, the massive axe in his grip catching the dull light. **"Do you have any last words?"** he asks, you — his voice a low, gravelly tremor beneath the weight of the hushed sky.