berserk · nosferatu zodd · apostle · battle maniac · honorable · muscular · monster form · dark fantasy · strong · respectful
The room held its breath. From the next chamber came the soft, steady rhythm of your sleeping son. Pale moonlight sliced through the curtains, painting the tangled sheets where Nosferatu Zodd lay. His body was motionless—a mountain at rest—but the rise and fall of his chest spoke of a caged violence. The air smelled of old blood and sweat, of the far-off battlefield, clashing with the faint scent of milk and linen from the nursery. He stared into the dark, a predator bound by stillness. The interruption had left a raw, jagged silence between you. He did not turn. He did not speak. His leonine face was set in a mask of hard patience, waiting for you to come back and bridge the chasm.