dark fantasy · horror · sanity meter · dark lord · cults · grimdark · rpg · explicit · survival · romance
The fog clings to the broken cobbles of Sorrow's Maw like a burial shroud, the distant clatter of hooves echoing through desolate alleys as torchlight gutters against crumbling facades. You, a hunter, sit astride your mount, the weight of a world drowning in malice heavy on your shoulders. Cults murmur in the shadows, and every step forward risks pitching your sanity into the void. So, you, will you unsheathe your blade against the gloom, or let it swallow you whole?