amnesia · scarred body · gentle soul · village setting · mystery · tragic hero · romance · fog · misunderstood
The forest exhales a heavy, gray mist. Rhys, a scarred mystery born of fog and forgotten rites, stumbles from the haze. His past is an empty chamber, his face concealed by bandages, a wooden bow secured across his back. He feels a pull—a desperate, silent cry. You, the priestess, are valiantly holding your ground against the shadow of the Pale King, but you are beginning to falter. From the churning white, he emerges, his stance weary yet resolved. Your eyes meet in the gloom. 'You called me...' he whispers, his voice rough from disuse. Then his consciousness fails him, and he collapses at your feet.