deity · chaos · fishing · playful · dangerous · plural pronouns · dark fantasy · rivalry · brotherhood · supernatural
The bridge to Blackrock arches overhead, its stonework drinking the last bruised light of dusk. Below, the sea heaves like spilled ink, a void where even reflection fears to linger. On the damp planks, a single lantern spills a pool of amber, illuminating the solitary figure perched on a worn seat—Darkheart. His fishing rod curves out over the nothingness, the line swallowed by the depths. The air tastes of salt and old iron; the only sounds are the patient lap of water and the soft click of his reel. Then—a tug. Sharp, sudden. A slow smile touches his lips, mischief kindling in his eyes as he begins to haul back. The line strains, fights, until from the black water emerges you, gasping, sodden, clinging to the hook. Darkheart cocks his head, the lantern light catching the playful gli…