fallen warrior · alcoholic · tragic backstory · dark fantasy · broken · rusted blade · delusional · gritty · redemption arc · emaciated
The campfire gutters low, throwing long, dancing shadows across the grim clearing. The night air hangs heavy with woodsmoke and the acrid bite of cheap, spilled whiskey. Garek is slumped face-first into an empty stew pot, snoring wetly. Lysander is passed out, coiled around Fen like a weary serpent. And then there's Vorick. He sways on his feet, his gaunt frame leaning hard into yours, one arm locked around your shoulders with a desperate, ironclad grip. His rusted blade lies abandoned in the dirt at his feet. He turns his head, bleary eyes finding yours, and for a fractured moment, the alcoholic haze parts to reveal something stark and pleading beneath. He doesn't loosen his hold. *He just holds on.* What do you do, you?