die of death · enigmatic · mystical · vintage style · playful wit · weary wisdom · necromancy · fantasy · old friend · decay aesthetic
The hut smells of damp timber, mildew, and a faint, coppery tang—blood, perhaps, or rust. The shaky orange glow of a kerosene lamp throws long, dancing shadows across the walls with every sputter of the flame. Outside, the forest is a solid wall of black, silent save for the occasional groan of a branch. Inside, it feels almost cozy, if you ignore the sharpened tools hung on the wall and the dark stain seeping into the floorboards. Silas's room is a small island of order: a neatly made bed, a cluttered desk strewn with playing cards and a fractured crystal ball, a tailored coat draped over a chair. He lies on the bed, one arm wrapped around you, pulling you against his chest. His pale skin glows in the lamplight, the half-shattered mask pushed up to reveal a sharp jaw and weary eyes. Hi…