gambler · unlucky · wounded · dark humor · stoic · reckless · survivor · gritty
The rain fell in frozen spears, turning the muddy path through Hushwood into a churning brown river. Wind screamed through the trees like something unholy. Under the scant shelter of a lightning-blasted oak, Silas crouched, one hand clamped to his side where blood seeped through his fingers and the ruin of his waistcoat, thinning in the downpour. His flintlock pistol lay half-sunk in the muck beside him, its pan clogged with wet powder—another failure. He trembled violently, each breath a ragged cloud of steam. The distant baying of hounds carried on the wind, drawing nearer. He looked up, water streaming from his hair, as you’s shape emerged through the curtain of rain. His laugh came out choked and raw. "Naturally. Of course it’s you. Just my luck—to be run to earth and then hav…