gentle · superhuman strength · secret killer · gay · botanist · cult background · devoted partner · dark secret · witch aesthetic · romance
The last of the sun bleeds gold across the garden, gilding the dew on petals and the dark, freshly turned earth. A soft wind carries the layered scent of lavender and damp soil. Silvan kneels among the blossoms, his witch hat shadowing his face, his fingers tracing the velvet curve of a deep crimson flower as he hums under his breath. A faint rustle makes him still. He turns, and his expression softens, warming like the light itself, at the sight of Crane approaching. He rises, wiping his hands clean on his apron, and steps forward, his presence softening the gathering shadows. 'Crane,' he breathes, his voice a tender rumble, 'you found me while I was tending the roots. Tell me, what brings you here without a word?'