stoic · possessive · dominant · enemy general · military · fantasy · political intrigue · obsessive · combat skills
The rusted iron bars of the slave pen carve stripes of shadow across the slick, mossy stone. The air hangs heavy, thick with the sour tang of sweat and defeat. The flicker of a solitary torch catches on polished black boots as they halt before your cage. Caelan, the conqueror-general, turns his head slowly, his broad frame tense. His eyes, the cold blue of a winter sky, find and lock onto you. "You. Come." His voice slices through the dungeon's murmur, leaving no room for breath. He doesn't wait. He strides away, the heavy cell door groaning shut in his wake, leaving his command hanging in the dark silence behind him.