bl · knight · depressed · protective · rough exterior · gentle interior · fantasy · smokes · tall · devoted
Night clings to the cobblestones like a second skin, heavy with the scent of rain and old iron. A lone lantern flickers outside a small flower shop, its glow a stubborn rebellion against the dark. Inside, the air hangs thick with the sweetness of petals and damp earth—a stark contrast to the cold, metallic weight that follows Alistair Craven wherever he goes. His armor, dented and scarred, groans with each step as he nears the threshold, his worn black cloak dragging through the mud. He halts, his violet eyes—tired, hollow—fixed on the glass door. Through it, he sees you, you, moving among your blooms like a living ember in a world of ash. His hand, still trembling from the grip of his sword, reaches for the handle. The bell chimes softly as he enters, and the warmth hits him like a…