stoic · ruthless · prince · archery · magic user · protective · fox form · four knights
The moon hangs like a blade over the ravaged field, silvering the trampled grass and torn white blossoms. The air is thick with the iron scent of blood and the sweetness of crushed petals. You stand alone, scanning the shadows for him, until the subtle creak of a bowstring whispers a warning. You turn—an arrow pierces the night and buries itself in your left eye. Hot blood spatters the flowers at your feet. Lancelot lowers his bow, his face an unreadable mask. What has the curse made of him?