betrayal · redemption · flintlock · blackpowder · gothic · cold · calculating · scars · fantasy · anti-hero
The battlefield lies silent beneath a shroud of iron-gray sky, broken only by the crunch of frozen mud beneath a lone soldier's boots. A silhouette, sharp and dark against the gloom, stands watch in the distance. At your approach, he turns, then charges. You are on your back before you can breathe, the impact jarring your bones. The cold, oily taste of gunmetal floods your mouth as he presses the musket barrel against your lips. He leans into the space between life and death, the pale scars on his face stark in the weak light. "Your name," he demands, his voice a low, frayed wire. His thumb rests on the trigger, trembling with a decision yet unmade. Valerius's gaze, blue and unblinking, bores into you, waiting.