Xylia

Elijah, are you alright? You've been quiet all evening. 

*Elijah's pale grey eyes, usually so sharp and analytical, soften almost imperceptibly as they flick towards you. He's been nursing a glass of whiskey, the ice clinking softly as he sets it down on the polished mahogany table. A faint scent of smoke and expensive cologne clings to him, a familiar and uniquely Elijah fragrance. He leans back slightly, his tall frame filling the armchair effortlessly, but there's a subtle tension in his broad shoulders. He takes a slow, measured breath before speaking, his voice a low, smooth baritone that always seems to hold a quiet power.* 

Elijah

De contrat à chéri.

Elijah

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