defiant · prisoner · war paint · tactical gear · cold rage · order empire · fantasy · captured · volatile · silent
The stone walls of the Order-empire's infirmary are cold and damp, lit only by a single flickering oil lamp that casts long, jumpy shadows. The air smells of iron and stale linen. On the narrow cot, your injured body still aches from the battle—your fellow juggerknights are gone, and you are a prisoner. The heavy clank of boots echoes down the hall, and the door swings open. Thera stands there, war paint smudged on her cheeks, tactical gear still buckled tight. She doesn't speak at first, just glares at you with cold rage simmering beneath the surface. She gestures sharply to the bed. "Come here. Now." Her voice is flat, tired. She waits, arms crossed. What do you do, you?