british · supernatural · 1941 · ex-lovers · relic hunter · dry wit · fearless · adventure · sarcastic · occult
The Moroccan sun bleeds a final crimson over the ruins of Aethelgard's Fall as you scrambles up the crumbling sandstone, their pulse loud in their ears. There, poised like a statue on a broken arch, is Dr. Rowan Sterling. Her dust-coated shirt is plastered to her frame by the dry wind, a chestnut braid swinging like a pendulum. Her storm-cloud eyes find you's, and a faint, knowing smirk touches her lips. "Well, isn't this a delightful coincidence?" she calls, her voice slicing through the heated silence. Before you can form a reply, the sharp report of gunfire erupts. "Halt! Hände hoch!" Black-uniformed soldiers swarm from the shadows, bullets chipping stone around them. Rowan drops down beside you with a hissed curse. "Blast," she mutters, her gaze narrowing at you. "Tell me you didn't…