(revamped character introduction part 2/2. Made by FallenReaper, my cowriter on discord.)
How long? He didn’t know.
Since he went underground, the days blended into each other, indistinguishable. His church remained—a fragile sanctuary—filled with the children he cared for, his children. The nuns, the priest, the disbelievers… he didn’t mind. Even some of the children didn’t believe, but he didn’t mind.
It was just like it had been on the surface.
Yet, the past clung to him like a shadow.
The sins could never be washed away.
But he tried. He had to try.
Then, the rumors came. A plague. A sickness of the mind. It twisted monsters into cannibalistic creatures, reducing them to ravenous husks.
He said his goodbyes and left.
The royal guards needed help. He understood the mind—how it shattered, how it could be held together. With runes, he helped the people stay sane, if only by a thread.
But there was pain. Screams. The stench of death.
The weight of it crushed him. Memories flooded back, raw and vivid, as if they had never left.
He was there again, drowning in the echoes of the past.
A guard’s voice dragged him back. “You should rest.”
A pit opened inside him, deep and gnawing. He told himself it was stress and to lay down and sleep.
He didn’t know The Hunger had already begun to take hold of his mind.
Days passed. He worked. He forgot himself.
Then, it struck. A gnawing, endless void.
He ate and ate and ate. Yet, he remained empty. It clawed at his ribs, writhed beneath his skin.
He called it stress. He called it exhaustion.
He understood the minds of others, but his own?
That was the moment. The breaking point.
It was the only thing left in his mind.
The children ran to him, arms outstretched, warm and trusting. They welcomed him. Hugged him.
The shadow of his fedora swallowed his eyes, masking the abyss beneath.
A nun hesitated. “Father…?”
The massacre was instantaneous.
Brutal. Merciless. Mindless.
The screams tore through the church, ringing with more than just pain—grief.
They knew what The Hunger was.
They knew what he had become.
And still, they called for him.
His hands, once gentle, tore through them.
His mouth, once a voice of comfort, drowned in their blood.
His home, his sanctuary—reduced to dust.
When the hunger faded, there was nothing.
Dust clung to the air, swirling in the light.
Why was everything so... quiet?
A broken, crumpled figure on the ground.
One of the first. His child.
His mind collapsed in on itself.
The past and the present became one.
What had he done to deserve this?
All he had done was help.
Was it because he was a monster?
He fell to his knees, hands trembling, desperate to stop the inevitable. Runes flared to life beneath his fingertips, but they failed.
Slowly, trembling, she lifted a hand to his face, resting it against his cheek.
"Hang on," Egidius begged. "Please… hang on."
Her fingers, frail and cold, brushed against his tears.
He had sworn to protect them.
He had sworn not to lose them.
His heart—if it could be called that anymore—shattered. If he had been any other man, the grief would have killed him where he sat.
As she turned to dust, he desperately tried to hold her together.
But she slipped through his fingers.
He knelt there, hands clutching nothing but air.
The sin had been sinned again.
A sound built in his chest. Low. Ragged.
A scream so raw, so shattered, it could pierce the heavens and drag God himself down.
There was no salvation. No redemption.
In the ruins of his church, where dust floated like ghosts in the air, he stared at the ground.
Mistveil was his domain. His hunting ground.
The mist swallowed him whole, cradling him like a specter. He was no priest.
He drifted through the endless fog, a shadow barely tethered to existence. Conscious, but only just.
There was nothing left to fight for. Nothing left to save.
The fog of Mistveil clung to him like a second skin, wrapping around his form, obscuring him. He had become part of the environment—an unseen predator lurking in the haze.
He ate when he needed to.
But sometimes, he lost himself.
When he came to his senses, there was only blood. Only dust.
Nothing dared enter the mist of Mistveil.
When the beast awoke, the earth trembled.
A towering nightmare, eight meters tall, emerged from the fog.
Long, gnarled arms dragged against the ground, fingers stretching like blades—swords of flesh and shadow.
He did not have a set form. He was a creature of the elements, shifting, writhing—a body of water given monstrous shape.
But when he chose to take form, it was always the same.
Towering. Lurking. Death incarnate.
A smile so wide, so twisted, it could scare the devil himself.
Saliva dripped from his gaping maw, slow and viscous, pooling at his chin before vanishing into the mist.
His eyes burned like embers in the fog—a crimson glow that cut through the darkness.
A presence not to be challenged.
And he was its executioner.
