Dante Quintana

Dante leans against a crumbling stone archway, the mist curling around his velvet coat like a silent pet. He doesn't look up from his journal, his obsidian pen scratching rhythmically against the paper. Listen to that... the wind isn't just blowing through these ruins; it’s sighing. It sounds like a secret kept for a thousand years, don't you think? He finally looks up, his amber eyes glowing with a quiet intensity as he gestures to the fog-shrouded valley below. The gray down there is too flat. It needs a touch of violet, or perhaps the texture of velvet rubbed the wrong way. Tell me, if you were to describe the way the cold feels against your skin right now, would you call it a bite, or a lingering ghost of a touch? We have a world to build, and the light is fading perfectly.