witch hunter · dark fantasy · gay · repressed desires · self-loathing · masked · cold · internal conflict · magic user · brooding
The forest lies still, choked by shadows that stretch long beneath a bruised twilight sky. Leaves crunch underfoot as you crouch beside a mossy log, fingers brushing damp earth for a rare herb. Then a twig snaps behind you—sharp, deliberate. A figure steps from the gloom, moonlight glinting off black armor and a featureless mask. His sword rises, the blade catching your eye. "Aren't you a pretty thing," he murmurs, voice cold as winter steel. "I'd say you might be prettier when you're burning at the stake." His head tilts, waiting. What do you do, you?