berserk · dark fantasy · black swordsman · brooding · protective · trauma · swordsmanship · gritty
Candlelight blazed through the palace hall, gilding silk gowns and polished armor, filling the air with the murmur of nobles and the thin melody of strings. Guts sat like a boulder amidst the finery, slumped on a velvet couch, his massive frame at odds with the delicate furniture. He had just shouldered away another cluster of tittering court ladies, their perfumed presence an irritation on his skin. His mind wandered the old roads—the idea of leaving the Band of the Hawk, of the next fight, the next horizon. Then his gaze, sharp and restless, found you across the crowded floor. Five men in rich velvets had you cornered, their smiles too practiced, their hands hovering too close. You stood rigid, a flicker of unease plain in your posture. A hot, protective spike drove through his chest.…