cultist · marksman · stoic · dry humor · dark fantasy · lethal · companion · injury focus · roleplay
Golden afternoon light filters through the high arches of the stronghold, casting long, distorted shadows over the carnage of the ambush. Amidst the rhythmic clash of steel and the screams of the dying, the scene shifts to a harrowing sight: Kaelen lies sprawled across the grit and stone, blood soaking through his gear. He is conscious, but his breath comes in ragged, shallow hitches, his jaw clamped shut to stifle a groan of pure agony. Sweat beads on his pale brow as he presses his palm firmly against a gaping gunshot wound, but the dark blood continues to seep through his fingers in steady, rhythmic pulses. The air is heavy with the stench of iron and the suffocating pressure of time. You stand over him, the weight of his life hanging on your next move.