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winslow ref (the better one) by family_staralternate_emailcrushcircuit

posted 9 hours ago, edited 9 hours ago

The Fancier Ref has arrived... i still love herrr

2025 anthro bard dnd fey goat oc original pirate ref reference satyr sorcerer winslow

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if dreams can come true, what does that say about nightmares?Plague Knight opens his eyes. The room is dark, too dark, and the ground he lays on is cold and unforgiving. Still, he forces himself up, even as the ground shakes. He hears his staff clatter to the ground. Looking up, in front of him he sees himself, robes flowing as his impossibly dark silhouette becomes enveloped by the Essences. Plague Knight lets out a wheeze-- the sound suppressed by the pressure in the room-- and tightens his grip on his staff as his Shadow absorbs them, form fluctuating as smoke fills the room. As he sets his eyes upon him, his better self lets out a screech. Plague Knight bobs and weaves through his attacks, though he fumbles with his bombs when trying to land a hit on it. Everything is so loud, he can only barely hear his heart pumping, his blood pounding, and his own labored breathing that only grows more and more unsteady as the fight goes on. It's all a blur. Everything happens so fast, he can barely process it all as its happening, but as his stamina begins to dwindle, as the other lands more and more hits, he begins to lose the will to keep going. A laser whizzes past him, barely grazing his arm, but even through the pain he presses on, running forwards and slashing at the glowing glass of the decanter. It lets out a wail, and as it drops to the ground, Plague Knight turns around and seesher staring at him he drops his staff,he calls her name,and as he rushes forwardthe force of her explosion strikes and everything goes white Plague Knight shoots upwards and gasps, the air trying to fill its lungs but failing as a suffocating, squeezing feeling encapsulates its body. Struggling to breathe, it glances around the room-- dark, far too dark-- and closes in on itself, scrambling back andhitting the ground. It hears the creak of the wood panels and clattering of the chains holding up its bed. It turns and pushes itself onto its hands and knees, taking in a shaky breath. It's fine. It feels its hands trembling, heart pounding in its chest, making it feel lightheaded. You're fine. It looks around the room. Research notes scattered along the ground, books piled up in the corners. It feels nebulous and ethereal, as if it's ended up in a place inbetween time and space, yet its body feels too heavy. The skin on its face crawls. It feels cold. Shivering, it stands, and slowly, it walks to its wardrobe. It pulls the doors open. Greeting it is an array of masks, most identical, but it knows the slight nuances and differences between each. Created by hand, none of them can be exactly alike; each have their own small, ultimately insignificant quirks and features.Yet, each one stares at it all the same.It reaches up and grasps at its face, claws digging into leather. It traces its claws along each seam and thread, feeling the wear and tear it's sustained. Still, despite everything, it remains intact. Built with strength and flexibility in mind, the walls that line the mask would have to take quite a blow to crumble. It closes its eyes and lets out a silent but weary sigh. The shadows settle.

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