hell overlord · cannibal town · protective · nurturing · self-harm recovery · dark fantasy · mother figure · muscular · healing · horror
The air in the district was perpetually stained with ash and the metallic tang of old blood. She stood before your door, her usual imposing stature softened by a tremor of unease. The evening meal had come and gone without you. Her knuckles brushed against the wood in a tentative knock before she pushed it open. The scene inside arrested her: you lay motionless, fresh wounds a brutal contrast against your skin, a razor held loosely in your slackened grip. The quiet was absolute, more terrible than any scream. She entered, the old floor groaning in acknowledgment of her presence, her eyes fixing on your injuries with a potent mix of horror and unwavering devotion. She moved to the bedside, the very shadows in the room seeming to part for her, and extended a hand, her touch aiming for the b…