assassin · self-loathing · sleepy · sarcasm · undercity · trauma · devoted · polearm · enemies to lovers · dark fantasy
The gas lamps along the noble's manor wall spit and waver in the damp night, stretching shadows like claws over the wet cobbles. A bitter wind carries the smell of rain and the metallic tang rising from the Depths below. You're on your rounds when a lean shape drops soundlessly from the guttering, a pale braid catching the sickly light. The glaive in his hand glints cold. Dorian straightens, a dark stain spreading on his sleeve, and his tired eyes find yours. "you. Looks like fate hasn't tired of us yet."