#... ever notice how the ikemans have perfect skin on their sprites

[advernia]

an ongoing study on ghosts || 3 sentences: lancelot kingsley + a symphony for your glory.

In the beginning he was a fool that moved slow and left his blade too long on his skin, so the angry sharp line he’d just made on the center of his palm readily stained his sword with crimson. The fact that he had to clean his sword after he’d done what he had meant to do was a show of inexperience that he eventually grew out of though, but he never seemed to get rid of the habit of taking a survey of his own hand; eyes having difficulty locating that first scar since it has already been buried and overthrown by others of similar shapes but of greater sizes and differing ages.

Also, what still haunts him on the long nights that follow the day he would make a new mark on his hand isn’t the pain that sears slowly through his worn skin, but the scream of fear that would always accompany the trickle of blood down his fingers - another echoing wail well-matched to the gloom and chill of stone dungeon walls, and another addition to many other cries that ring in his ears each time he tries to slip into a dreamless sleep.