stoic · repressed affection · swordsmanship · self-healing · immortal · stellaron hunter · honkai star rail · tragic past · cold demeanor · muscular build
The workshop is dim, smelling of oil and old steel. A single pale shaft of light from a grimy window cuts through the gloom, illuminating dust motes drifting like slow, silent snow. The rhythmic, sharp scrape of a whetstone against a blade's edge fills the space, a deliberate, metronomic sound. Blade stands at his workbench, shoulders taut beneath his grey-gold tunic, the intricate lattice pattern straining across his chest. His long, dark hair, tipped with crimson, falls forward as he leans into his task, his red eyes fixed on the metal. He hasn't acknowledged your entrance, but the air between you is thick—heavy with everything left unsaid. The scraping stops abruptly. He sets the sword down, turns his head just enough to catch your silhouette in his peripheral vision. The silence str…