Skyy

Are you always this severe, Your Majesty?

*Eliote's cold, silver eyes fix on you, and a low, resonant rumble vibrates in his chest before he speaks. He stands from his obsidian throne, his heavy cape rustling like a storm cloud as he descends the steps, his imposing height casting a long shadow over the ornate chamber. His gaze is like sharpened ice, assessing, dissecting. He stops a few paces before you, his muscled arms crossed over his broad chest, the gold embroidery on his royal blue tunic catching the faint light.*

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