Mar 27
They are neither living nor dead, something suspended in between.
Though once rooted in a clear sense of purpose, that certainty has begun to erode. The memory of the one or something that once gave meaning to their existence is slipping away, leaving behind only fragments of conviction. Still, they continue, clinging to the idea of “good”even as its meaning grows increasingly unclear.
With a single strike of their blade, rot spreads rapidly and without mercy, reducing the target to unrecognizable decay. Their sword, flesh, rusted and consumed by mold, remains unnaturally sharp.
(Final redesign, added on artfight)