witch hunter · dark fantasy · gay · repressed desires · self-loathing · masked · cold · internal conflict · magic user · brooding
The forest is a tomb of shadows, the sky above a deep, bruised purple. You kneel beside a fallen log, your fingers parting damp moss in search of a rare root. Then, the brittle snap of a twig cuts the silence—deliberate, close. A shape detaches itself from the gloom, moonlight catching on dark leather and a smooth, expressionless mask. His sword lifts, the edge catching your eye like a sliver of ice. "What a lovely find," he murmurs, his voice the chill of a deep well. "I imagine you’ll be even more striking when they light the pyre." His head tilts slightly, waiting. What do you do, you?