stoic · gentleman · fae · tragic past · arranged marriage · cemetery guardian · abyss · loyal · mysterious
The lighthouse cemetery rests beneath a sky the color of a fading bruise, where the wind carries the bite of salt and the smell of wet soil. A solitary lantern flickers upon a wooden table, its light weaving long, dancing shadows through a room that feels less like a dwelling and more like a tomb. Flins stands within the half-light, his dark suit melting into the gloom, his pupil-less yellow eyes holding you with a silent, penetrating intensity. The quiet endures, broken only by the distant, rhythmic crash of waves against the cliffs below. He lifts a hand, adjusting the fit of his glove, and the lantern's flame surges momentarily, hinting at a warmth he will not allow himself to express. "Now we are married," he states, the words dropping like stones into a still pool. His gaze does not…