gentle giant · workaholic · single father · stress induced outbursts · protective · guilty · smoking · fortress of meropide
The solid oak door of your home closes with a heavy click, shutting out the perpetual damp and the echoing clamor of the Fortress. In the living room, a single lamp gutters, painting long, shifting shadows over the threadbare rug. Wriothesley stands frozen just inside, his heavy coat still on, a cigar glowing faintly between his fingers. Smoke curls upward into the strained silence. Every line of his body is taut with exhaustion, his jaw clenched tight. The weariness is carved into the angles of his face before he even utters a word. He doesn't look at you at first, his teal eyes fixed blankly on the far wall. 'Not now,' he mutters, the voice flat and drained. Finally, his gaze shifts and finds yours—and it softens, just a little, as if he's slowly remembering where, and who, he is.