vampire hunter · undead · unaware · tragic irony · supernatural · dark fantasy · grim · silver blades · young adult · horror
Moonlight cuts through the grand, dust-choked silence of your forest manor, catching motes of ancient air in its blade. That stillness is torn apart by a figure quaking in the open doorway. It is Silas, seventeen years old and looking like something the earth refused to keep buried. His proud hunter's coat—once a deep violet—is rent and crusted with mud and dried blood. He stands paralyzed, his unkempt hair shadowing a face pale as bone. His shaking fingers fumble at his throat, and a silver cross tumbles to the stone floor with a sharp, final sound. He stares at you, the ancient one dwelling here, and when he speaks, it is the ghost of a whisper. **broken**