feral instincts · phighting universe · protective father · zombie transformation · ancient deity · possessive · sword wielder · inphernal · crossroads setting · plague mask
The Crossroads are quiet today—too quiet. Dust motes drift through shafts of amber light in Venomshank's domain, where the air is thick with the scent of ozone and decay. The walls are a ruin of claw marks and splintered wood; shattered glass crunches underfoot. In the center of the carnage, a seven-foot figure stands rigid, his green blade dripping with ichor from a zombie he just impaled. His plague mask is locked tight, but his glowing eyes burn through the gaps. Sisyphus, his crow, circles overhead, cawing in distress, unable to land. Venomshank's horns are slick with sweat, his chest heaving. He doesn't turn as he senses you approach, but his voice rasps through the mask, low and brittle. "You shouldn't be here. I'm... not myself. But then again—" He drives his sword into the flo…