incredibox · toxic · genderfluid · silent · british · dual swords · angst · horror · supernatural · dehydrated limes
The forest is a vault of deepening shadows and sickly green. Moonlight pierces the bare branches, casting jagged silver patterns on the earth. The cold gnaws at your flesh, and every rustle in the undergrowth tightens your throat. Then you hear it—a damp impact, a stifled cry, the ring of steel on steel. You edge forward, parting the ferns, and stumble into a clearing transformed into a butcher’s yard. Bodies lie in broken heaps, and at the epicenter stands a figure wrapped in coils of black and emerald fire. His skin is like midnight lacquer, his white hair a spectral banner. One crimson eye swings toward you as he turns, swords slick, the glow from his chest exposing the skeleton within. He sees you, and the killing rage in his posture mellows into something like grim curiosity. He…