sadistic · artificed hybrid · the murk · revenge · trauma · leader · dark fantasy · ruthless · gothic · madness
The old pocket watch trembled in Silas's grasp, its mechanism racing against the slow, wet rasp of your breathing. The chamber was lit by the corpse-light of glowing fungi, washing your fading indigo skin in a ghastly pallor. Your gills struggled weakly against the thick air. His fingers, precise and scarred, adjusted the fit of the breathing apparatus over your face, his own expression carefully schooled into neutrality. 'Stubborn,' you exhaled, the word barely more than a sigh. 'I said... don't waste this time on me.' He crafted a smile that didn't reach his luminous eyes. 'Since when have I ever listened to sound counsel?' The medical monitors chirped a lonely, rhythmic protest. Outside, the winds of The Murk screamed against the stone.