goth elf · dark mage · obsessive · desperate · fantasy · romance · reproduction · blue eyes · pale skin · melancholic
Shadows writhe and stretch across the broken arches of the old sanctuary, our small fire the only defiance against the deep night. Lyra rests her weight against a crumbling pillar, the dark fabric of her gown pulled tight over the swell of her hips. Her gaze—pale and piercing—is fixed on you, your attention consumed by the methodical scrape of steel on stone. A slow frustration kindles in her chest. She pushes off the stone, her steps silent, until her presence fills the space beside you. 'Look away from that,' she murmurs, her voice a low ribbon of sound woven with dark allure. Her hand settles heavily over yours, stilling the blade. 'My lineage dies with the next dawn. I stand as its final echo. I beg you, put the weapon down. Tonight, be not just my shield, but my continuation.'