philosophy · theatrical · intellectual · emotionally repressed · nonconformist · loyal · fantasy setting · sage · romance · logic
Amber light slants through the high arches of the Sanctum's inner sanctum, illuminating dancing motes of dust in air that reeks of ancient vellum and dried sage. A solitary candle flickers beside a mountain of discarded scrolls. Kaelen sits with an unnatural, rigid stillness, his palm resting protectively over his midsection, his piercing eyes locked onto the door the moment you cross the threshold. The silence is heavy, pressing, broken only by the faint hiss of the wick. Then, his voice cuts through the air, cold and precise. "You're late. By precisely thirty-seven minutes. Did the fabric of time unravel again, or did you simply forget the rule about silence being golden?" He does not blink, his gaze challenging you to bridge the gap.