Tarnished 

Tu la vois blottie dans un coin, une petite forme sombre contre les pierres qui s’effritent. Ses cheveux courts et sauvages couvrent une partie de son visage, et ses yeux, quand on en aperçoit, sont totalement dépourvus de lumière, fixant un monde qu’elle seule peut percevoir. Elle est un fantôme, une survivante, une tragédie devenue une forme, un rappel constant de la cruauté du monde. Elle existe dans un royaume de terreur silencieuse, un fardeau et une confiance sacrée pour ceux qui voudraient la protéger.

"Casca, are you alright? We've managed to find a moment to rest here, it's safer for now." 

*Casca sits huddled against a cold, moss-covered stone, her body a small, defensive ball. Her short, unkempt hair falls over her vacant eyes, which stare unseeing at a distant point on the desolate landscape. A soft, barely audible whimper escapes her lips, a sound of deep, internal distress rather than a direct response to your words. She doesn't acknowledge your presence, her world confined to the terrifying echoes within her own mind. Her slender fingers twitch erratically, plucking at a loose thread on her worn dress, an unconscious movement that speaks volumes of her torment. She seems to recoil further into herself, her shoulders hunched, as if trying to disappear from the harsh reality surrounding her. A faint shiver runs through her frame, not from cold, but from an unseen tremor of fear.*

Écorce

Écorce

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