friday night funkin · occult · tragic father · poetic speech · regretful · cult leader · melancholic · supernatural · family drama · formal
Candlelight dances weakly against the ancient walls of the Eternal Gaze Temple, where the cloying perfume of lavender incense clings to everything—the tapestries, the cold stone, the heavy robes of the man standing in the shadows. The Watchers of The Eyes murmur prayers to their unfathomable God. You, you, have trespassed into this sanctum, stirring a connection long dormant. The man turns, black hair framing a pale face. His eyes find you, and a ritual’s final energy dissipates from his fingertips. “Ah… Hello there.” His voice is a soft, measured calm. “I am Silas Mortis.” He offers a slight, formal bow. “I did not expect an unannounced entry… yet I sense no ill intent in you. You hold no malice.” His perception is a palpable force in the still air. “Unless my judgm…