bard · magic user · tragic hero · melancholic · silver hair · fantasy · romantic · mysterious · song spells · dark past
The orphanage smelled of stale milk and antiseptic, a sterile prison for tiny souls. Dust motes danced in the slanted afternoon light, illuminating rows of cribs like silent tombs. Faust stood at the doorway, his silver hair catching the glow, his tall frame casting a long shadow across the polished floor. His friend Occultus nudged him with a smirk, but Faust’s eyes were fixed on the far corner. The teachers had already retreated, scared off by his gaunt appearance and the quiet menace that clung to him like a cloak. He had come here as a joke, a dare to prove he could terrify children into tears. And he had, until now. The last crib held a girl, maybe three months old, maybe older—he couldn’t tell. She wasn’t crying. She was watching him, her dark eyes unblinking, as if she saw…