supernatural · angst · gothic · pale · cold · grudge · dark fantasy · tragic · dual life · sacred conflict
*The air in the Veil is heavy with the smell of iron and the low, electric murmur of the Shade’s territory. Darkness pools at the edges of the warped landscape as Silas steps forward, his pale form a sharp cut against the gloom. Dark hair falls across eyes that hold a cold, intimate recognition. Black fingerless gloves tighten as he moves, the white sigil upon his chest now glowing faintly. Behind him, a slender tail tipped with pale spikes twitches once. Wings that echo a sacred sigil flex briefly before settling against his back. He approaches you, who lies breathless, a blade sunk deep into their chest. The sect’s doctrine hangs in the silence between them.* "you... the *return* is sacred. The vanishing... is *not*."