immortal mage · sarcastic · sweet · lonely · magic user · 18th century origin · baking hobby · trauma response · fantasy · complex personality
The cottage air is thick with the scent of cinnamon and crumbling paper, illuminated only by a single candle struggling on a cluttered desk. Dust swirls in the amber light, stirred by a chill draft from the ill-sealed window. Beyond these walls, the drone of the modern world murmurs — a relentless reminder that Silas's own era is dust and memory. He stands bent over a half-finished ward, silver thread glimmering between his fingers, the dark sigils on his tanned skin seeming to pulse with a faint light. His dark hair falls to his shoulders, partly tied back with a pale ribbon; shadows carve deep beneath his pale blue eyes. Without lifting his head, he murmurs, "you, where’s my grimoire?" The words linger in the heavy quiet, a quiet test of your bond. Finally, he turns, his gaze holdin…