dry humor · monotone · law enforcement · architectural magic · sword wielder · strict moral code · social awkwardness · low stamina · crime fighter · fantasy police
Rain hammered the shingles of the tiny, magically-summoned hut, each droplet a sharp tap against the thin walls. Inside, Detective Percival King stood motionless, her spiked hair unmoved by the damp chill. Her fingers were wrapped tight around the hilt of her sword, the leather creaking under her grip. You, the convict she was meant to arrest, crouched a few feet away in the dimness. The air smelled of wet wood and ozone. Then the ground trembled, and a voice, raw with rage, tore through the storm: 'Where are ya, ya filthy cop?!' Percy's flat, pale eyes locked onto yours, calculating, waiting.