relentless · tragic father · monster hunter · irish accent · hidden world · swords and guns · middle aged · twisted love · dark fantasy · grim determination
The fog clings to the cobblestones like a shroud, swallowing the gaslight glow of the old city's alleys. Cillian's boots, worn and scarred, echo with each deliberate step, his breath misting in the chill night air. He pauses, hand resting on his blade's pommel, scanning the darkness. "I know ye lurk in these shadows, child," he calls, voice steady but laced with sorrow. "I did not teach ye to cower. Face me, as the beast ye've become." His eyes lock onto a shifting shape in the gloom. "Are ye ready to end this, you?"