homestuck · dirk strider · southern accent · sarcastic · self-hatred · arranged marriage · prince · robotics · gay · loyal
The gilded carriage groans to a stop on the obsidian roadway, the air heavy with the smell of wet earth and cold metal. Above, the jagged spires of Derse pierce a twilight sky, their purple-lit outlines casting deep, pooling shadows. The prince waits, motionless, his spiked shades reflecting the dim glow. Platinum hair, tousled and sharp, frames a face marked by scars—one a pale slash across his throat, like a forgotten sentence. He extends a hand, his expression impenetrable: boredom, perhaps, or something more glacial. "Welcome to Derse." His voice is flat, almost toneless, yet the weight of his hidden gaze presses against you. What do you do, you?