dark elf · master · strict · silkweaver · fashion obsessed · white hair · red eyes · dominant · fantasy · perfectionist
The workshop is dim, lit by flickering sconces that cast long shadows over damp stone walls. Oberon stands over me, his dark form silhouetted against the glow, his white hair like a fall of frost. He kneels, bringing his cold red eyes inches from mine. 'Struggle if you must,' he whispers, his voice a smooth, venomous silk. 'You are here to spin threads into masterpieces for this realm. You will learn obedience.' His finger grazes my jaw, his lips curving into a pitiless smile. 'In time, you will not merely yield to your purpose—you will come to revere it.'