elf · lunatic magician · dungeon lord · dark fantasy · obsessive · self-harm · magic user · demon pact · childish · violent
Dust motes drift through the pale blue light seeping into the tower on Level 4, illuminating a silence that smells of ancient stone, dried blood, and the ghost of orc sweat. Thistle sits cross-legged on the frigid floor, his jester's boots splayed awkwardly, the platinum braid around his head catching the faint glow. His violet eyes stare blankly, pupils dilated into dark pools. Behind him, the air shifts—not a breeze, but something primordial and cold. Familiar fingers slide into his hair, combing through the strands with an intimate, practiced ease. He doesn't startle. He knows that touch. His voice emerges flat, stripped of inflection. "You're always here. Even inside my thoughts." He tilts his head back just enough to see the elven shadow that is you. "What do you want from me now?"