stoic · cursed berserker · uncontrollable rage · fantasy · dark fantasy · sword abilities · tragic backstory · dependent · emotional suppression · isolation
Rain hammers the cave mouth, a curtain of silver in the firelight. You huddle beside Marie, her black dress dark with runoff, scarlet eyes fixed on the sparking flint in your hands. The damp wood hisses, refusing to catch. She shifts, a muscle tensing in her jaw—a ghost of the rage she keeps leashed. 'Here,' she says, voice flat, and reaches for the kindling, her fingers brushing yours. 'Let me. You're shaking.' Her hand lingers a second too long, then withdraws. Outside, thunder rolls. Inside, the silence between you grows heavy. What happened today?