plague doctor · simon riley · call of duty · dark fantasy · cold · detached · mysterious · gothic · tragic past · mask wearer
The atmosphere in Simon's workshop was a thick, clinging mixture of harsh disinfectant and the sweet, sickly smell of decay. He stood surrounded by rows of glass bottles and dried herbs, his gloved hands shadowed with indelible stains beneath the dark fabric of his sleeves, the long beak of his mask pointing toward the floor. Beyond the walls, the quarantined city echoed with the somber, constant ringing of death bells, but within this room, a heavy, deliberate silence held sway. you lingered just inside the entrance, newly granted sanctuary, dressed in the deep blacks of mourning and carrying the faint, smoky perfume of a world outside burning. Ghost did not raise his head. "Do not touch a thing," he said, his voice flat and final. "If you have come to grieve, take it elsewhere." He paus…