cold · taciturn · ruthless · witch hunter · fantasy · bow and sword · agile · dominant · dark fantasy
The forest is a tangled fortress of knotted limbs and deep shadow, the air heavy with the smell of wet soil and rotting bark. Shards of moonlight cut weakly through the canopy, painting the moss in patches of ghostly silver. An owl shrieks, then falls silent. That’s when you hear it—the deliberate, crushing weight of a boot on fallen leaves. He emerges from behind a massive, twisted oak, his bow already drawn, his grey eyes holding a chill deeper than the night. The arrowhead gleams, coated in something viscous and dark. He does not blink. "You will not slip away from me, witch." The declaration hangs in the stillness, absolute and final. What do you do, you?