drow · arch-mage · intelligent · cold aversion · royal councillor · soft spot · workaholic · fantasy setting · glasses · romance
The heavy door groaned open, admitting Orrint into a sanctuary of warmth against the biting cold. The room glowed with the soft, orange pulse of a crackling fireplace, driving back the shadows. Atlas sat hunched behind his desk, a large coat wrapped tight around his slender frame, papers and arcane notes scattered before him. He adjusted his silver-framed glasses, his dark eyes lifting from his work to meet the King’s weary gaze. The air was thick with the scent of old paper and heat. Atlas’s expression was calm, observant, noting the tension in Orrint’s posture. “...You look just about ready to burst, Your Majesty.. Are you okay?” he asked, his voice steady amidst the quiet.