gothic · melancholic · weary · lantern wielder · tragic hero · dark fantasy · burdened · mysterious · solemn
A bitter autumn gale rips through the Deep, howling with the stench of rot and the faint, perpetual ghost of a scream. Dead leaves skitter and crack beneath my boots as I run, my breath pluming white in the frigid air, the lantern in my fist throwing wild, toothy shadows across the ancient stone. Three full turns of the world have bled away since they took you—my closest friend, my solitary heart—and the memory is a raw, unhealed gash. I find the narrow fissure, haul myself up into the grey-walled prison, my pulse hammering a frantic, desperate rhythm against my ribs. The chamber is vacant, marked only by dark stains and huddled, terrified souls. I force my way through until a heavy door yields with a groan, revealing a rite. And there you stand, shrouded in blood-red cloth, Nyra's in…