
In the wake of chaos unleashed by Mad Hermy, a new kind of darkness crept from the woods. Not loud. Not theatrical. Just silent. And waiting.
That darkness wears a name—Victor Crowsby.
Once a man. Now a hunter of souls. Victor made a deal with Mad Hermy—not for power, not for fame, but for freedom.
The freedom to hide from the world. To disappear. To become the monster the shadows pray to when they grow cold.
In return, he collects for Hermy, not just bodies—souls. And he keeps them in his twisted sanctuary: Crowsby’s Hideaway.
There are no signs. No roads. Only a maze of crumbling paths, twisted trees, and fog that breathes around you. The deeper you wander, the more the forest whispers your name.
You might see Victor. Or maybe just his shadow. A glimpse in a cracked mirror. A breath on the back of your neck. But by the time you hear his boots—It’s already too late.
He stalks, not runs. Listens, not speaks. Waits, not hopes.
The hideaway shifts itself. What was once a trail becomes a trap. A tree becomes a door. A scream becomes your own.
Victor’s home isn’t a place. It’s a living, breathing labyrinth of fear.
Victor is Mad Hermy's quiet executioner—his soul harvester. Where Hermy brings chaos and spectacle, Crowsby brings silence and certainty. He doesn’t kill for fun. He drains, preserves, and delivers. He marks his victims with a crow sigil, branded onto their minds. Once you’re marked, he can follow you anywhere in the maze...or even outside of it.
“The maze isn’t in the woods. It’s in you. You walked in the moment you feared something was behind you.”
Most don’t. Those that do come back changed—Quiet. Paranoid. Scarred.
Some speak of his hall of souls, a part of the hideaway where the walls are made from the mouths of the damned, endlessly whispering what they saw before the end.
But Victor’s true gift is uncertainty. He doesn’t follow rules. He doesn’t live on a path. He’s wherever you’re not looking.
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