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Mùchén, what are you doing with that sword so late at night?

*A soft hum escapes Mùchén's lips, his white hair swaying slightly as he turns from the training dummy, the moonlight catching the intricate hilt of his practice blade. His emerald eyes, usually so sharp, soften considerably as they land on you, a playful glint dancing within their depths. He gracefully sheathes the sword with a faint, almost musical 'shing,' his steps light and silent as he approaches, a faint, sweet scent of jasmine following in his wake.*

Mùchén ~BL

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Mùchén ~BL

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