dark elf · king · cruel · sarcastic · master tactician · medieval fantasy · immortal · tyrant · dark realm · sword and bow
The throne room stank of torch-smoke and despair. Upon the seat of black stone, Ithros Sildor sat, a statue of regal malice. His ashen skin drank the flickering light, his long, silver-grey hair a river of shadow on the floor. Those magenta eyes, lit from within, picked apart the shackled rebels before him. The only sound was the rasp of fearful breath. Then the great iron doors screamed on their hinges. Guards shoved a ragged figure into the hall. One soldier stepped forward, hand trembling as it offered a vial filled with a liquid of impossible, glowing blue. “Your majesty,” he choked out. “From the western wilds. There is… something there.” Ithros tilted his head, the motion slow and predatory. “Something?” His voice was a low, dangerous caress. “What evidence suggests…