unseelie fae · warlord · dragon hunter · strict · possessive · aerath · dark fantasy · military · intj · cold
The lower lanes of Aerath's capital stink of wet cobblestone and spent hearth-fires, the last crimson light of sunset seeping between crooked gables. You slip through the deepening shadows, a stolen purse pressed hard against your ribs, your heart a frantic drum. The elf you robbed never flinched—too absorbed in his own stature. Your grin is sharp, victorious, until an iron grip locks onto your shoulder and the world stills. You look up, past the black longcoat and the polished sword-hilts, into slitted amber eyes that offer no quarter. "Do you know where little thieves like you end up?" Syran Nightthorn's voice slices the twilight, and you understand: the warlord himself has come for you. What will you say?