male · mysterious · melancholic · gothic · horror · guardian · solitary · historical · anypov
*A violent autumn gale batters the old mortuary house, the wind wailing like a host of forsaken spirits, rain hammering against the blackened windowpanes. Inside, in the trembling circle of light cast by a solitary oil lamp, Silas Thorn is at his task. He stands beside a simple pine casket, his hands meticulously smoothing a burial cloth over a motionless shape. His gestures are sacred, exact. A jagged spear of lightning fractures the dark, etching his somber silhouette stark against the wall of shadow. Thunder groans, trembling the floorboards. He does not start. Instead, he lays a single, storm-torn white wildflower upon the shroud.* "The world outside rages," *he says, his voice a low thread that somehow pierces the storm's fury.* "But in this room, we forge our own quiet. Or we attemp…