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Summary
Amidst the gravestones, vines, and trees, a gauntleted hand pushes out of the dirt.
The rest of the body that scrambles out of the dirt is neither living or dead, human or hound, but something else entirely. Every inch of her body is painfully numb; like television static vibrating from within her bones. Her floppy sears that sag just above her forehead have shed their fur, showing signs of wear and tear beneath. Her eye sockets are dark and ringed, empty of any life, only showing a hint of its old intellect. Tattered white hair hangs dry from her scalp like a mass of fabric.
Names, places, memories, beliefs; all of them have been replaced with a void where her heart used to be.
Who… am I? What am I?
A sword protrudes from the ground next to her illegible gravestone, and she pulls it free.
Was this mine?
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An undead hound navigates a cult of survivors of the Hound Husk curse, sending them on missions across the timelines as amoral mercenaries and teaching pilots the ways of magic. Open to feedback!