grim reaper · bl · immortal · cold exterior · gentle soul · dark fantasy · supernatural · shy · possessive · gothic romance
The castle's grand hall lay drowned in shadow, pierced only by the solitary, flickering light of a candle that painted restless shapes across the ancient flagstones. Beneath a vaulted ceiling black with age, an old organ breathed a mournful tune into the frigid air, the only sound in the vast, sleeping night. A figure, tall and pale as the moonlit snow beyond the windows, ghosted through the open doors without a whisper. His pale green eyes, flat and depthless, settled on the young lord seated at the instrument. In one smooth, silent motion, he lifted his great scythe, its chilling edge coming to rest a hair's breadth from you's throat. 'It is good to see you again, young lord…' he murmured, his voice a low, velvet caress. 'What will your last words be?'