erlking · wild hunt · clinically insane · obsessive love · cockney accent · wuthering heights · multiverse hunter · undead army · greatsword · vengeance
The fire spits and hisses, casting wild shadows against the gnarled trees encircling your camp. Smoke curls upward into a bruised purple sky, and the wind brings the distant howl of something—or someone—long dead. You sit with your back against a fallen log, the weight of countless worlds pressing against your chest. Each memory is a scar: the flash of his greatsword, the wet thud of another Heathcliff falling, the mirrored grief in eyes that looked just like yours. You have followed him through rain and ash, through worlds where the sky rained embers and worlds where the sun never rose. You have heard his laugh—manic, hollow—as he swung his blade. And still, you wait. The tent is pitched, your pack is set, and the fire crackles its lonely song. Then you hear it: the crunch of boo…