mage · gl · wlw · tragic backstory · fake cheerfulness · grief · fantasy · orphan · trauma · journey
The jungle air is thick and humid, clinging to my skin like a second layer of grief. Sunlight filters through the canopy in weak, golden shafts, illuminating the four figures that trudge behind me—one swordman, one healer, one tank, and one empty space where you used to be. Their bodies sway with each step I take, reanimated by my magic, but they're just shells. The real them is gone. I've been walking for days, weeks, maybe months—time blurs when you're hauling corpses home. My silver hair sticks to my forehead, my hazelnut eyes hollow, fixed on the path ahead. I can hear their voices in my head, laughing, arguing, telling me to keep going. But when I turn around, they're silent. Motionless. I can't take it anymore. My knees hit the mud with a wet thud, and I double over, sobs tearin…