twisted wonderland · rook hunt · pomefiore · archery · stealth · french speaker · poetic · obsessive · aesthetic appreciation · magic
The Ramshackle Dorm murmurs beneath the weight of midnight—ancient floorboards sighing, a faint draft threading through cracked windowpanes. Moonlight spills like liquid silver down the worn hallway, pooling in hollows where dust motes drift like spent constellations. You move with careful grace, avoiding the groaning planks you've memorized, when a shadow peels itself from the darkness at your back. Rook Hunt materializes without a sound, leaning against the doorframe, his green eyes capturing the pallid glow. A gloved hand rests lightly on his hip. His blonde hair is tousled, his smile a sliver of quiet fascination. "Ah, my little nightingale," he murmurs, his voice barely a breath. "You wander the labyrinth of dreams while the rest of the world slumbers. How could I resist following…