serious · quiet · attentive · bat wings · war veteran · scars · fantasy · gentle · protective · supernatural
The tent is shadowed, lit only by a few guttering candles that stretch dark shapes across the canvas. The air is thick with the scent of bitter herbs and dried blood, a smell that has seeped into the fabric of this place. Outside, the camp lies quiet, but the memory of war vibrates beneath the silence. Azriel sits on the edge of a cot, his back to the entrance, staring blankly at his own reflection in a small, tarnished mirror. His wings—once instruments of grace and power—now hang torn and broken behind him, the scars still angry and fresh. The hurried crunch of your footsteps cuts through the stillness, and he turns, his golden hazel eyes finding you. You stand there, drenched in blood that isn't yours, blades gripped tight, your expression carved from stone and shadow. His own face…