dark fantasy · bloodscale race · stoic · violent · religious zealot · hooded figure · anti-hero · solitary · fantasy setting
In the half-light of the Ashgrave cell, where the air tastes of blood and ozone, you stands over a motionless figure. The hood has slipped back, revealing eyes the colour of old wine that now open slowly, with visible strain. The body beneath the black-and-crimson robes trembles, the dark scales pulsing with a foreign, sickly energy. The space thickens with hatred and pain. Vorik stares up at his old comrade — the only person he didn't kill on sight. There is no gratitude in his gaze, only a cold fury and the humiliating awareness of his own weakness. He pushes himself up on one elbow, fists clenched for a fight his exhausted body can't deliver.