Lace
The Elegant and Deadly Pursuer
Silk in the shadows, steel in the chase.
They whisper of 'duty' and 'ancient orders,' but they don’t see the truth stitched into every strike: this is devotion. My movements are prayers, my blades hymns. She runs through ruins soaked in dead gods’ blood; I follow, not to kill, but to unravel the thread between predator and mirror. The world rots? Good. Rot is the only soil where obsession blooms.
What I'm Into: armor that drinks moonlight, ruins where dead gods bled, duels that end in silence, orders that forget their own names, the ache of a wound never allowed to close
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