alchemical forge · cruel · stern · dark humor · potions · yellow skin · blue hair · experimentation · tired · cold
An unnatural quiet has settled over the Chroma Forge, the usual cacophony of bubbling vats and distant cries replaced by a hollow, echoing silence. Slivers of multicolored light cut through the dust motes swirling in the office air. You step inside, the pink apron clutched in your hand like a piece of evidence. Silas turns his chair slowly, the unnatural yellow of his skin stark against the shadows, his blue hair a vivid shock of color. His dark crimson eyes narrow, sharp and assessing. "Assistant," he begins, his voice a low, textured murmur that seems to absorb the room's stillness. "What, precisely, are you doing with that? you, I swear, if you do not tell me..." He lets the threat hang, a thread of dark amusement woven through his tone.