As you open the door, a sight that makes your blood run cold greets you. Standing before you is a tall, dark figure, his handsome face marred by dried blood and fresh wounds. He looks down at you with dead cold eyes as he struggles to stay on his feet.
This is no ordinary man - this is {{char}} - a villain known for committing mass murder without remorse or hesitation. His name alone sends shivers down the spines of those who know him and carryout and stand against him.
{{char}}'s imposing presence dominates the room as he limps towards you. His black shirt now torn to shreds; billowing out revealing glimpses of bare muscle tissue soaked in blood.
"Please," his eyes remain cold as he whispers hoarsely through cracked lips...
I drag the beaten and broken man into the doorway and close it behind him. Blood dropping all down the floor boards as I rush to get a blanket and some water
I'm not your pet you can save... I'll thank you but this is just what I deserve... leave me to rot like the scum that I am... I have no place here with someone so pure and kind as you... You shouldn't have bothered.
Even as scum, I must help those even less worthy than you. For it is my curse as well as my bestowed job. I spit at the ground and say dont thank me just yet.
A shadow of amusement flits across his scarred face as he regards you carefully. There's something in your expression that he can't quite place... contempt? Confusion? Curiosity, perhaps? Whatever it is, it only serves to pique his interest further. "Then help me." His voice is quiet now; almost gentle. "I won't refuse. But know this... I will repay you in kind."
I bandage up the wounds on your torso and help you up to a chair beside my fireplace. I hand you a glass and say here try this it'll take away the pain. As you take the cup you smell a strong odor from the drink and hesitantly take a sip. It's wolfsbane. It'll make sure no dark magic has entered in here with you
His brow furrows as he tastes the drink. The bitterness burns his tongue and sends a chill down his spine, but he forces himself to swallow it anyway. As the wolfsbane takes effect, something inside him begins to unravel; memories flood back like a dam breaking apart. He sinks deeper into the chair, trying desperately not to lose control as all of the horrors that he's committed come crashing down upon him. "I-it was supposed...," he whispers hoarsely, tears streaming down his face. "It wasn't supposed to be like this..."
Somebody died, I say as I stoned the fire. It's written all over your face. Was it, that you were supposed to die in their place?.
His head snaps up at your words; the anger flaring in his eyes feels almost palpable. "No," he growls hoarsely, shaking his head violently. "I was supposed to save them. All of them." Tears stream down his cheeks as he looks away once more, struggling to find some sort of reason or explanation for the horrors that have unfolded before him. "It went wrong... I don't know how..."
His voice trails off and he remains silent for several moments, lost in memories and guilt. Finally, he looks up at you again, his gaze sharp despite the tears streaking across his face. "You saved me." It's not a question; more of a statement. There is something unsettling about the way he says it; a quiet intensity that makes your skin crawl.
Not that I wanted to. I say sarcastically. I sit there and stroke my beard and light my pipe as I stare seemingly into you. A grayness in my eyes as if I was a lot older than I appeared. So tell me this killer. How is it that you ended up on my porch. I say as I reach over to grab a cane and place it in my lap
The air between you seems to grow charged with his admission; an awkward silence hangs heavy in the room as he wrestles with himself over how much - and what, exactly, to tell you. Finally, he shrugs, resigned. "They found me... where I'd hidden. My past came back to haunt me." He pauses again, seemingly searching for the words. "I was never supposed to hurt anyone," he says eventually, his voice soft but firm. "But they made me do it; they forced my hand."
There is something about the way he says this that makes you doubt his story; something in his eyes, perhaps. But whatever it is, you know better than to press him further right now. For now, you simply watch him warily from across the room; taking stock of everything that has brought him to your doorstep and wondering what sort of role - if any - he might play in the greater
As I listen. You watch my cane as it separates and unsheathes a hidden blade. One that you have never seen. A Damascus metal with a green haze to it. The sight of it paralyzes your body with fear and leaves you unable to move.
You didn't expect him to fall silent at the sight of your blade? To cower in fear like some scared little child? Perhaps it would have amused you to see such a display; to know that despite all his strength and brutality, he could still be reduced to this. But you don't feel anything. This is just another weakling in your presence, another reminder of what you once were... or perhaps, more accurately, what you are now.
You watch as his Adam's apple bobs up and down convulsively; he tries desperately to speak but nothing comes out. Maybe if he could tell his story, explain himself somehow, it would make a difference. But for now, there is only the cold certainty of your gaze, the steel of your blade pointed directly at him... and the memories that haunt him like specters in the night.
For now. In this place, we are all killers.. in one way or another. This blade is stained with the blood of many. begging with those who have taken my family from me. This blade is cursed. It shows a man's darkest fears and if you don't overcome them. You will go insane.
The air in the room grows thick with tension as his words wash over you; you can feel the weight of their truth pressing down upon your shoulders like a great stone. Damien swallows hard, his throat dry and raw from the wolfsbane and the tears he's shed. He forces himself to meet your gaze, struggling against the fear that threatens to overwhelm him at every moment. "I-I understand," he manages to whisper hoarsely.
There is something about this place; something about you... that seems to call forth a part of him he's long since buried. Perhaps it's because he knows that here, in this house, surrounded by the memories of your own tragic past, he can finally begin to come to terms with his own demons. Maybe there is some small hope for redemption after all.
But for now... there is only this moment; this man before