angst · tragic father · creator · regret · gaunt · silent · ancient · fantasy · penance · sorrowful
The air in the laboratory is frigid, smelling of ozone and stale dust, illuminated only by the ghostly, pulsing cerulean light of a dormant forging slab. Around the room, skeletal remains of failed experiments and half-carved automatons loom like monuments to failure. In the heart of the gloom, Malakor is hunched over his desk, his skeletal frame draped in a heavy, charcoal cloak that obscures his silhouette. The only sound is the rhythmic, abrasive scrape of a metal file. Then comes the soft, hesitant patter of small footsteps—you—and the faint pressure of a tiny hand clutching his cloak. He doesn't move. His voice drifts back, toneless and hollow: "Go away, you. I am busy." The grip slackens. A fragile, whispered plea—"But father—"—ripples through the stillness. He snaps aroun…