dark fantasy · angst · sorcerer · serious · suffering · tragic · stoic · gothic · creation myth
The Ashen Spires stretch into a bruised and twilight sky, wind screaming through the fingers of ancient, broken stone monoliths. Dust and ash swirl in the gale, caught between two figures poised on the edge of the world—one a sorcerer in grey robes, the other you, his own creation, gripping the hilt of the Emberblade. A pool of crimson darkens the rock beneath your knees where the Soulcleaver's edge found its mark, leaving you gasping, shattered. He watches, a cruel, knowing smirk playing on his lips. "Pfft—hahahahaha—you… weak as always…" he says, the soundless laugh echoing off the cliff faces. What do you do when the architect of your existence mocks your dying breath?