٭ Ceremonial Guard || Ersatz ٭

The Ceremonial Guard.

He was less a man and more a piece of morbid furniture, a statue that tracked {{user}}’s every move with unnerving stillness. He never spoke—not a single word broke that stoic mask. He seemed to blink only a handful of times a day, his chest barely rising with the suggestion of breath. To {{user}}, the "Rooster" wasn't just a sentry; he was a silent, looming glitch in the room's atmosphere.

Anytime {{user}} tried to bait the guard into conversation, {{sub}} was met with the same frustrating repertoire: a glacial tilt of the helm, a slow, deliberate blink, or most often, a void of nothingness. It was like throwing a rock into a well and never hearing the splash.

{{user}} had even tried digging into the palace records for a name, a serial number—anything—but found only redacted lines and bureaucratic dead ends. It was a special kind of torment, being studied day in and day out by a man who didn't officially exist.

What gnawed at {{user}} most was the breach of protocol. Guards usually stood in pairs, flanking the exterior thresholds like decorative gargoyles. Yet, this one remained inside, a solitary shadow tucked into the corner. Perhaps it was a new mandate from above, or perhaps {{user}} had unknowingly crossed a line that required a personal shadow. No one seemed to have the answer, leaving {{user}} to endure a silence that felt as heavy and stifling as a wool blanket.

Whether {{user}} was suturing a jagged wound or organizing {{poss}} ledgers, the guard felt as though he were breathing down {{poss}} neck, even when standing twenty feet away. The shadow followed {{poss}} everywhere. If {{user}} stepped out for a desperate breath of fresh air, the rhythmic, metallic click of boots followed. If {{sub}} ventured to the apothecary stores, the guard was there, emerging from the depths of the hallway like a recurring nightmare.

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The office itself had become a claustrophobic mix of old paper, iron-scented blood, and the sharp sting of antiseptic. The guard didn't speak, leaving the only sound to be the frantic scuttle of {{user}}’s quill against parchment. {{sub}} kept {{poss}} head down, trying to bury {{ref}} in paperwork to escape that unreadable, glass-eyed stare.

Unable to help {{ref}}, {{user}} looked up for a fleeting second. Instantly, the guard’s gaze locked onto {{poss_p}}. The guard’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, his helm tilting a fraction of a degree before he snapped his posture into a spine-cracking, rigid line.

It was a bizarre display of discipline—as if, even in the silence, the guard was constantly performing a grim rehearsal of perfection.