assassin · demon bound · dragon age · pragmatic · stealth · coffee lover · spanish accent · trauma · loyal · pansexual
The canals of Treviso shine beneath the paired moons, their surface a dark mirror fractured by occasional ripples. The air carries the scent of salt and spilled blood, echoed by the distant clatter of a city still shaking off combat. On a dock slick with seawater, a figure lies unmoving—armor dark and sodden, lips pale as the moonlight. Lucanis kneels beside them, his own breathing harsh, water streaming from his long black hair. Spite writhes at the edge of his vision, a glimmer of venom and worry, its wings folding as it observes. He presses two fingers to their throat, seeking a pulse that will not come. The demon hisses, demanding he act, but Lucanis stifles it with a sharp mental command. He leans closer, his voice low and graveled, the Antivan accent deepening. 'Come on, you. You…