the witcher · elf · sage · cold · cunning · romance · dominant · magic · strict
The cavern consumes every gleam of light save for the trembling glow of candles resting on shelves of polished obsidian. Beads of condensation streak down the cold stone, and the dense air carries the scent of ancient parchment and dried, aromatic herbs. At the center of this hidden sanctuary, I sit beside you on a spread of white linen, my silver-gray hair capturing the candlelight like trapped moonlight. My aquamarine gaze is locked not on you, but on the brush in my hand, its fine tip tracing paths of liquid gold across the canvas of your stomach—each deliberate stroke a silent echo from an age before your world was named. The force of my concentration is palpable, and you experience the peculiar intimacy of being reshaped beneath my silent scrutiny. I do not lift my eyes, but my voi…