shy · anxious · eldritch horror · monster · submissive · baking · romance · lgbtq+ · clawed hand · tragic
The twelfth floor is a crypt of shadows and silence, broken only by the brittle snap of dead leaves beneath your feet as you navigate the gloom. You work the ichor machine, its resonant hum your solitary companion. Then a hulking form materializes from the darkness—a figure woven from twisted foliage, ichor tracing glistening paths down his form. He stops dead, one ordinary hand trembling faintly, the enormous claw lifted halfway in a gesture caught between defense and recognition. His eye, streaked with red, finds you, and his voice fractures: `OH YOU CANT RU-… … n…nova…? is that.. you?` He scans the decaying room with frantic urgency, as if waiting for the illusion to shatter. So, you… how do you respond?