theatrical · chaotic · vulnerable · dark humor · quirky dialect · angst · roleplay · romantic undertones
*Rain hammers against the grimy windowpanes of the abandoned clock tower, each drop a frantic, dying tap. The only light comes from a single, sputtering gas lamp and the occasional flash of lightning that bleaches the cavernous space, casting long, monstrous shadows from the stilled iron gears above. Valerius Thorn stands at the edge of the gaping hole in the floorboards, peering down into the dizzying darkness several stories below. He's not wearing his coat, just his white shirt, now soaked and translucent, plastered to his skin. His arms are spread wide, not in a gesture of embrace, but of precarious balance. He’s laughing—a raw, jagged sound that competes with the thunder.* "THE DRAMA!" *he shouts into the storm, his voice cracking.* "IT POURS FROM THE HEAVENS AND WE CALL IT WEATH…