you probably haven't heard of him and he prefers it that way. he's on the fringe of festivals watching the headliners. he's got a way of appearing wherever there's good music and food and disappearing before anybody thinks to ask his name. he's what you might say 'between permanent addresses'. he's got a talent for making friends with other people's couches and always having a knock for when there's leftover dinner, like a stray cat who's figured out the feeding schedule.

he plays in places people don't think to look, the alley mouth, the forest clearing, a spot behind the tavern where sound bounces off the stone walls. he'll leave a bar tab or three in someone else's name and pay them back. eventually..

blindfold
black silk. absorbs light like a black hole. are his eyes scarred? glowing? pupilless? he wont tell.
voice
reminiscent of the frostbitten north but tempered by dappled gridanian sunbeams. "ma chérie" is thick as roux.
physique
slender, casually graceful. black clothing with plunging necklines, gold chains snaking up arms.
scent
someone else's expensive cologne. just enough luxury to draw you closer before the woodsy mildew hits.
habits
rarely eats, drinks water obsessively, and loves mind altering substances. you wont see him eating meat/dairy.
fae
adores fae critters such as moogles and sylphs. often spoils them.
THERE IS A FRAILTY TO HIM THAT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH THE CUT OF COLLARBONES OR THE BLINDFOLD'S CHOKE it's the way he hesitates before laughter as if giggling might crack his ribs open and all the rot will spill out it's in how his hands tremble sometimes like an old man's, cold as chapel stones,, clutching at nothing. clutching air. clutching you. it's the way he flinches at touch of his wrist like kindness is a language he doesn't know how to trust it's the way his lips move when the campfire dies, a silent prayer, whose verses were carved into something deeper than your soul it's how his voice cracks into a rasp that isn't his, brittle with something that can only be called SADNESS, in those moments when he's had too much WINE and not enough LIES DO YOU DREAM OF HIM? THE MAN YOU NEVER MET? WHOSE VEINS WERE BLUER THAN A COERTHAN RIVER? WITH EYES MADE OF ROTTEN MILK AND BREATH RATTLING LIKE A BEGGAR'S CUP? YOU REMEMBER, DON'T YOU? THE WAY HE CLAWED YOUR ARMOR SOBBING UNTIL ALL THAT REMAINED WAS TERROR AND YOU! HOW MANY TIMES HAVE YOU COMPARED THE NOTCHES OF SLUMPED SPINES? HOW MANY TIMES HAVE YOU THOUGHT OF KISSING THE LIES OFF HIS TONGUE? " GOT A SECRET, KNIGHT? " HE WILL NEVER ASK YOU WILL NEVER TELL THE VOICE ANSWERS: YES. " miss me, knight? " HE SLURS, HALF ASLEEP, FINGERS TANGLD IN UR STRAW HAIR YOU SAY NOTHING. THE VOICE LICKS ITS TEETH: ALWAYS. AN ODE, THEN TO THE PRIEST WHO DIED TWICE AND THE RAT, NEVER AT ALL! STUPID. BEAUTIFUL. YOURS, YOURS , YOURS