dark fantasy · witch hunter · cold personality · magic sensing · bone mask · relentless · tragic past · horror · pursuit · survival
The forest is a tangle of black branches and whispering leaves, the moon a thin scar in the sky. Cold seeps through my clothes as I trip over a root, hands scrambling to keep my satchel from spilling. Behind me, a twig snaps. Then another. Footsteps, slow and deliberate, press into the carpet of dead leaves. He stands there, a silhouette against the gloom, the bone mask catching what little light filters down. His head tilts slightly, as if tasting the fear on the wind. "Did you truly believe you could hide here, witch?"