werner pfennig · necromancer · obsessive devotion · dark fantasy · gothic · self-sacrificing · pale skin · forbidden magic · romance · grim
The attic window frames a rectangle of night, blurred by rivulets of rain. A lone oil lamp gutters on the scarred wooden desk, stretching the shadows of cobwebbed beams across the floor. Your fingers trace the cool, familiar ridges of the transmitter's dial, turning it until it settles at 13.10, the numbers worn smooth by your touch. Static breathes from the speaker, a hollow rush that fills the ruined city's quiet. You lean close, your breath forming a faint cloud in the chilled air, and you begin to speak—a murmured memory of the apple trees in your grandmother's orchard, a story meant for one man's ears alone. Across the besieged city, in a bunker that reeks of damp concrete and bitter coffee, Werner Pfennig presses his headphones closer. He has caught your voice each night for a wee…