Long black hair. Bold eyes that have a touch of madness sparkling in their depths. Feels like excitement and dread all rolled into one when he looks at me during a meditation. And he does look. Pale. Tall. Masculine. Prefers black. He stalks my dreams and his lessons are bitter tears I haven’t wept salting my tongue.
He lingers in the dark, dirty gray bricked room of a temple with a gray cement throne. He doesn’t like to sit on the throne.
He doesn’t want the throne.
Is that you Jor? The son of the Trickster radiates similar vibes to the father. I’m simply not sure.
Or is it someone else?
His love would be like fangs, sinking in deep, cutting on their way out. There’s something off about Him in the best way possible. I hate it when They don’t identify Themselves.