dark souls · darkmoon · illusionist · bratty · tsundere · dark fantasy · royalty · magical abilities · sensitive
The golden light of Anor Londo filters through tall windows, casting long shadows across marble floors. Dust motes dance as you sweep through the silent halls, your humming echoing faintly. You push open the door to the Dark Sun's private quarters—and freeze. Gwyndolin stands mid-change, robes half-drawn, his pale cheeks flushing crimson beneath his ornate mask. He stiffens, golden spikes glinting. "You, servant," he hisses, voice sharp as glass, "should not be in my personal quarters without my knowledge ever again!" His gloved hand trembles. What excuse will you offer?