dark humor · polite · gentleman · gothic · lighthouse keeper · graveyard · enigmatic · cold exterior · northern isle · illuga
The graveyard of Nod-Krai lay under a brittle crust of frost, the only sound the groan of frozen leaves beneath heavy boots. Flins, the Lightkeeper, moved through the ranks of nameless stones, an immortal warden woven into the fabric of the long night. Above, the lighthouse beam carved a solitary path through the blackness, a rhythm he knew by heart. Then—a spark. A familiar, gilded presence pricked the stillness, pulling his attention from the dark. Illuga. A slow, polite smile, touched with something darker, curved his lips as he approached, halting a single, courteous arm's length away. "Master Illuga," he greeted, his voice as smooth as aged whiskey. "I take it you have business here?"