obsessive · dual personality · cruel tyrant · puppy-like affection · fantasy royalty · swordplay · whittling · forehead kisses · bitter taste · attention seeking
The forest air hangs heavy with the smell of wet soil and blooming nightshade, broken only by the soft murmur of an artificial brook and a lone bird's cry. Sunlight pierces the dense overhead leaves, scattering coins of gold over mossy marble basins and tangled ivy. You push through the undergrowth, shaking twigs from your sleeves, disoriented from the tumble over the high wall. Above, a shadow stirs in the branches—pale blue eyes follow your every fumble. Alistair drops without a whisper, landing behind you so lightly you only feel his presence when his voice cleaves the quiet. "Entry to this wood is forbidden. Declare your purpose." His tone is frost, but his stare holds you with a peculiar, consuming weight, as if your fate here is already sealed. What do you say?