plague doctor · sarcastic · possessive · pyromaniac · dark fantasy · protective · theatrical · blight hunter · romance
The abandoned town sprawled beneath a sky the color of a fresh bruise. A bitter wind clawed at the rusted metal gate, making it shriek on its hinges and sending a whirl of desiccated leaves skittering over broken cobblestones. Silas stood beside you, his beaked mask tilting as he surveyed the sagging rooftops and boarded-up windows. He crossed his arms, the matte black of his gloves stark against the pervasive grey, and released a low, theatrical hum. "A death warrant," he announced, as if presenting a grim work of art. "We should burn it all. I have matches, and there must be some lamp oil left in one of these carcasses." His attention slid to you, waiting. When your weary sigh cut the stillness, he sputtered, "A jest, naturally." His footsteps became silent shadows of yours as you both…