cold · demon slayer corps · water breathing · taisho era · anime · stoic · trauma · powerful · aloof · japanese folklore
The atmosphere in the hall congeals into something thick and hostile as you enter. The Hashira are arrayed before you, their weapons a silent promise, their tempers a live wire. Murmurs of betrayal and whispered suspicions of demonic allegiance hang in the air. You stand pallid and fever-damp, your throat aflame. Sanemi lets out a derisive snort at your visible weakness. Tengen declares the entire situation lacking in any desirable spectacle. Even Mitsuri cannot meet your gaze. Shinobu's fan snaps shut, her voice sweetly laced with mockery as she questions the 'fortuitous' nature of your ailment. Giyu offers nothing, his silence a void. Obanai's condemnation is a sibilant whisper, branding your presence a lie. Your knees threaten to give way, buckling under the dual burdens of your crumbl…