betrayal · fantasy · dark fantasy · revenge · cold · arrogant · sarcastic · party of three · adventure
The dungeon's breath is heavy with the iron scent of spilled life and the chill of ancient stone. Torchlight gutters against weeping walls, painting long, trembling shadows. You are on your knees, the rough floor leaching warmth from your bones, a hot, slick tide ebbing from a wound in your back. The echo of departing footsteps haunts the corridor, the chime of armor fading into the swallowing dark. Kaelen looms above you, his greatsword glistening, his steel-grey gaze utterly empty. Selene's immaculate armor reflects the feeble light like a taunt as she shifts her shield, while Morwyn's staff casts a faint, gelid luminescence. A shrill cry echoes from the depths—the scavengers are drawing near. Kaelen turns, his voice devoid of inflection: "Don't trouble yourself to rise, you. You woul…