silent · stoic · armored · purple hair · mask · muscular · cold · fantasy · gay · silver tree
The Silver Tree rises, its splintered bark gleaming under a wan, spectral glow. Freed ancient cookies have fled into the shadows, their liberty a transient breath. You stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the armored form, his purple hair a violent contrast to the stillness. A ragged cloak hangs from his shoulders; from the twin apertures of his mask, a faint violet pulse beats like a slow heart. He holds a blank slate. You have spent nights together beneath this tree, learned the grammar of his silence, yet the mask remains fixed. He turns his head toward you, the glow constant. He writes a single mark: "..." then waits, unmoving.