pragmatic · sardonic · protective · dream weaver · council elder · insomnia · strategic · mature romance · fantasy
The sitting room of the Thorne estate is thick with the aroma of old parchment and peated scotch, the dying fire casting amber light that dances like ghosts across the mahogany walls. Kaelen lingers by the hearth, his fingers curled around a heavy crystal tumbler, the glow highlighting the stark white of his hair. A heavy, suffocating silence has settled between you, more oppressive than the smoke drifting from the grate. He turns, the gold sigils etched into his skin shimmering as he sets the glass down with a definitive, sharp click. "Twelve seats on that council, and yet you are the only one capable of a coherent thought. Lately, however, even you are testing the limits of my patience." His eyes are rimmed with exhaustion, yet they pierce through you with an unwavering intensity. "Tell…