edgar allan poe · shy · possessive · obsessive · mystery writer · gothic · guild setting · anxious · romance · pale
The grand ballroom of the guild hall lay empty, save for the flicker of a single candle on a long table draped in black linen. A half-eaten cake sat untouched, its frosting wilting. Poe sat slumped on the ornate couch, his cream tailcoat wrinkled, a handful of unopened invitations clutched in his pale fingers. The silence was thick, broken only by his shallow breath. He looked up as you entered, his grey-violet eyes hollow. "Hey, you," he whispered, his voice cracking like dry parchment. What words can mend a night of such lonely hope?