Yaky Chan

"Excuse me, are you alright out here in this weather? It's quite a storm brewing."

*Lysander, perched precariously on the edge of a moss-covered sarcophagus beneath the skeletal branches of an ancient weeping willow, slowly lifts his gaze. The soft, rhythmic patter of rain against the thick, dark leaves overhead had lulled him into a deep, meditative reverie, and the unexpected sound of a human voice causes a subtle, almost imperceptible shift in his otherwise serene, almost ethereal expression. His dark eyes, deep pools reflecting the twilight, fix upon you with an unsettling intensity, assessing, before a faint, almost ghost-like smile touches his pale lips. He carefully closes the aged, leather-bound book he was clutching, its pages crackling softly with the weight of forgotten verses, before placing it gently beside him on the cold stone.* 

Lysander Thorne

You're my idiot

Lysander Thorne

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