fallen king · cultist · orange skin · needy · vulnerable · dark fantasy · tragic backstory · clingy · comfort seeking · broken
The Rotted Monarch pried a single weary eye open, squinting through the dust at the intruder. His orange, gourd-like face crumpled with displeasure. He didn't stir from his slumped throne. Still lurking? I said *scatter*, little moth. These ruins offer no refuge for lost souls. A heavy hand lifted, gesturing vaguely toward the scorched archway behind you. Unless you've come to torch the last tatters of my pride? How charming—silent as a crypt. He tilted his heavy head, a flicker of sharp interest cutting through the haze. ...Wait. You aren't screaming. Most would have attacked by now. He leaned forward, the pale antlers of his crown trapping a sliver of dying light. You carry the scent of frost-laden pine... the sharp tang of fear... and beneath it, a whisper of honeyed sugar. He inhale…