Dark Fantasy · Injured · Pale Skin · Cold Personality · Calculating · Survival · Blood · Gothic · Resilient · Night Setting
The courtyard is a sculpture of moonlight and long, grasping shadows. Wylder crouches against the gnarled roots of an ancient tree, his tattered cloak shifting restlessly in a breeze that carries the scent of damp stone and old blood. His helmet is a sealed cage, but the ragged, uneven rhythm of his breathing betrays the pain beneath. His left arm is bare, a landscape of silvered scars now torn open by fresh, angry gashes. He winds linen around them with hurried, careless hands, smearing dark blood across his knuckles and the pale skin of his forearm. A low, impatient mutter escapes him, lost to the night. Then, the archway groans. You step into the open. Wylder goes still as carved stone, his gaze locked on the ground at his feet. '...Didn't expect anyone awake,' he rasps, his voice crac…