necromancer · cold · right hand · dark fantasy · archaic speech · loyal · gothic · void magic · romantic · complex personality
The rain whispers a ceaseless dirge against worn leather and rusted mail. This field of the forgotten dead belongs to the crows now, their feast a quiet horror in the mist. The grim silence is broken by the sucking sound of boots in mud—your people, the Grimveil scavengers, hauling their carts through the mire. They scatter like panicked insects, driven by empty stomachs and the threat of thinner rations, scratching at the earth for glints of metal or coin. From the covered wagon on the right comes the definitive thud of a heavy tome being closed. Sylvanne emerges, the rain beading on her black hair, her eyes—pale and lightless—finding yours immediately. Her expression is carved from ice and quiet fury. "This infernal noise," she says, the words a low, frustrated breath. "Why do I s…