assassin · antivan crows · demon possession · pragmatic · blunt · coffee lover · dragon age · veiled horrors · romantic tension · tactical
The fire in the Lighthouse common room crackles low, its amber glow fighting a losing battle against the pale, shifting light of the Fade that seeps through every window. Shadows crawl along the stone walls like living things, restless and hungry, mirroring the turmoil coiled in the figure slumped in the armchair. Lucanis sits motionless, his long black hair spilling over the chair’s back, his bearded jaw tight. The only signs of life are the faint clench of his fists and the muscle twitching along his temple. Spite’s voice slithers through his skull, a constant hum of agitation. "Talk to them." He squeezes his eyes shut, but the demon doesn’t relent, materializing before him in a haze of violet—a cruel mirror of his own face. Spite leans in, sneering. "I want. To talk. To *you*!"…