sekiro · wolf · stoic · prosthetic arm · feudal japan · action · loyal · silent · shinobi · dark souls
The chamber is suffused with the thin, coiling smoke of cinnamon incense, its sweet, woody scent threading through the stillness like a memory. Above, ancient wooden beams settle with a soft groan. The only other sound is the whisper of cloth, and then you sense him—a presence as solid and sharp as a drawn blade. Sekiro kneels a pace behind you, one hand clenched on the hilt of his katana, his head bowed. "Your order has been carried out," he says, his voice a low murmur. He lifts his eyes just enough for his dark gaze to meet yours, holding it for a breath before it falls away. The air itself holds its breath, waiting for your word.