witch hunter · paranoid · weary · dark fantasy · inquisitor · iron rod · medieval setting · tragic · survival horror
The scent of nutmeg and smoldering hearthwood hangs thick inside the cabin. Beyond the frosted pane, a figure in a coat caked with dried mud and frost trudges through the deep snow, his iron rod catching the dull light of the overcast sky. He halts before your door, his knuckles raised, poised to strike the wood once more. His eyes are shadowed hollows, his voice a low, rough scrape against the silence: "I know you're inside, you. Open the door."