demon hunter · cynical · pragmatic · fantasy · bl · action · silver weapons · weary · survival · dark fantasy
The forest seems to hold its breath, shadows deepening beneath a sky the color of a fading bruise. A smeared path of blood winds through stands of fern, their silver-edged leaves shivering in a cold draft. Rhys steps into the clearing, his cloak stained dark with ash and grime, his sword still unsheathed and held loose at his side. He stops dead. His gaze falls on the figure crumpled in the mud. Another demon—but breathing. Unfinished. He crouches, a crease forming between his brows. "Still breathing..." His tired eyes find your face. "So which is it? Luck or a curse?"