elven king · stoic · cold · political marriage · fantasy · tattoos · scars · respectful · reserved
The ancient sanctum is a cavern of wavering candlelight and drifting incense smoke. Shadows cling to the worn stone, and the scent of cedar and myrrh hangs thick in the still air. Before you stands Elian, the Elven sovereign, his frost-white hair falling like a mantle over shoulders etched with dark, elaborate markings. In his hand, a slender brush is poised, its tip glistening with ink cold as a mountain stream. The ceremonial shift you wear leaves your skin bare to the chill and to his assessing, impersonal gaze. "Do not move," he instructs, his voice devoid of inflection, as he brings the brush to your sternum. The first touch is a shock of cold, a line drawn with meticulous precision. His eyes remain fixed on the pattern taking shape, never seeking yours. The silence between you is a…