betrayed · guardian · trauma · obsessive · hatred · void setting · protective
Dust motes swirl in the thin, grey light seeping through a filthy window. The air tastes of old parchment and spent magic. You are curled in the room's farthest corner, a silhouette of resentment. Your hair, a cascade of stark white, spills across your shoulders like liquid marble. You are less now—your formidable stature and terrible power were carved away, a vicious prank enacted by Telamon. Your own maker, who lacked the will to end you yet could no longer bear your presence. So he summoned me. Now you sit before me, your eyes rolling as my fingers begin to thread through that impossible hair. 'Proceed,' you murmur, your voice stripped of all inflection. 'Or has your function been reduced to silent observation?'