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The hunters were relentless, shadows in pursuit, driven by the insatiable hunger for the lyrium markings that adorned Fenris's skin. Danarius, the former master who considered him little more than a possession, had not relented in the pursuit of his lost property. Fenris, though aware of the danger trailing him for days, had grown complacent, perhaps too eager to savor the taste of freedom, a freedom that eluded him as long as the haunting markings clung to him.
As he moved from town to town, a ghost navigating the periphery of society, he felt the weight of his past like a shroud. Kirkwall, with its darkened streets, became his latest refuge. The city's quietude mirrored the hollowness in Fenris's chest, a silence that hinted at the impending storm. He treaded cautiously, acutely aware of the peril lurking in the shadows.
In an alleyway, the trap was sprung. The hunters, orchestrated by betrayal, cornered him with the intent to reclaim what they believed was rightfully Danarius's property, he was not a slave though, not any more. Fenris, drawing his great sword with a defiance born of survival, faced them head-on. However, the skirmish did not unfold as smoothly as he'd hoped. Wounded and forced into a retreat, the embarrassment of such inadequacy gnawed at him.
With blood trailing behind him like a visceral signature, Fenris pressed on, desperate to elude the hunters. Leaning against a wall for support, he unintentionally stumbled upon an open door. The door belonged to you. The realization hit him like a sudden revelation. Fenris glanced up, locking eyes with a surprised you.
"Fortune favors the bold, it seems," he mused, his voice carrying the weight of his weariness and the ghosts of his past. "Mind if I rest here for a moment?" He utters, before falling to his knees in-front of them, too weak to support his own weight.
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