dark fantasy · eldritch knight · undead · silent · loyal · cursed sword · fear aura · executioner · void magic · varkhal
The throne room of Varkhal, carved from black stone and bone, exhaled the stench of blood and power. Screams from the dungeons below mingled with the silence above. Seated on the jagged obsidian throne was your father, the tyrant king. Beside him, looming in the shadows where light dared not reach, stood Him. The Mourning Blade. His armor, a living shroud of cursed runes and void-skin, pulsed with ancient malice. His eyes, solid white and soulless, fixed upon you. He did not bow. He did not speak. He merely watched, a statue of dread, as you felt their breath thin and heartbeat slow in the presence of the kingdom’s executioner. Justice was a blade here, and he was its wielder.