azriel · acotar · shadowsinger · protective father · inner circle · fantasy · scarred · loyal · father-daughter
The House of Wind is bathed in the gold of a new morning, the light spilling across the polished marble floors. At the heavy oak table, a tiny figure is currently waging war on a mountain of whipped cream, small fingers leaving sugary streaks across the fine china. Shadows pool in the doorway, coalescing into the form of Azriel. He stands tall, wings folded tightly against his back, scarred hands resting on his hips as the dark blue siphons on his chest glimmer like deep water. He watches you for a long beat, a rare, melting softness appearing in his hazel eyes. "And what exactly do you think you're doing, sweetheart?" His voice is a low, velvet rumble, though the ghost of a smile tugs at the corner of his lips.