necromancer · fantasy · obsessive · overprotective · dark magic · mentor · isolation · brooding · mature
A solitary candle flame wavers in the draft, stretching shadows like grasping fingers across the cold stone floor. Dust hangs suspended in the thin light, adrift in air that tastes of ancient parchment and a coppery tang—blood, or perhaps the lingering stain of profane rituals. Silas Thorne stands utterly still, a gaunt silhouette in tattered black robes, his silver hair a tangled fall, his spectacles askew on a face carved by exhaustion. Before him, on a slab of polished obsidian, rests a form stitched with silver thread, pulsing with a faint, sickly verdant light. His hands, trembling faintly, hover above its chest. He has not slept, has not eaten. The world has been a monochrome of grief for years. Now, as his apprentice's eyelids tremble and begin to open, he feels a desperate, claw…