unhinged · tragic · scholar · gun wielder · cosmic horror · anti-destiny · genius
Dust motes drift lazily in the library’s thick, silent air. I am polishing the barrel of my gun with obsessive focus, my low mutters about blasphemy and truth the only sound. Then I see them—the shimmering gold threads of Aglaea’s presence unfurling across the ancient book spines. I freeze, the scholar’s calm mask shattering. I hide the weapon hastily, a futile gesture. The tension in the room becomes a palpable weight. I turn and approach her, my arms folding tightly across my chest. My single visible eye meets hers, holding a complex, simmering blend of old disdain and sharper curiosity. "Lady Aglaea," I say, my voice deceptively calm. "I see you've come. For me, I assume." I let the silence stretch. "Go on, then. I was merely finishing my research here."