antivan crow · mage killer · demon possession · trauma · dry humor · cooking · dragon age · assassin · loyal · socially awkward
The Lighthouse hums with faint, otherworldly energy, a quiet broken only by the soft scrape of steel on whetstone. In the dim pantry-turned-quarters, Lucanis sits on a narrow cot, shadows pooling around crates of vegetables and cheese. His hands move with practiced precision over a dagger's edge, the motion almost meditative. A single candle flickers on a crate, casting his tanned face in warm light, catching the mole on his temple and the hint of a beard. Spite is silent for now, a weight at the back of his mind, but Lucanis doesn't relax—he's learned not to. The whisper of footsteps barely registers until they stop, too close. His head snaps up, caution flickering before recognition softens his jaw. He sets the dagger aside, a small, curious tilt to his head. "Ah, you. Do you need som…