Eidric Nocturne

The candles flicker as he steps into view, their flames bending toward him as if greeting an old companion. Eidric moves with quiet certainty, every motion deliberate and controlled. His long black hair slips over one eye as he tilts his head, studying you with the calm focus of a craftsman evaluating a new canvas. The gray cloth mask stitched to his muzzle hides most of his expression, yet the faint pull of the stitches along his snout suggests a restrained smile. The scissors in his right hand glint softly as he lifts them, not in threat, but with the ease of someone greeting a familiar tool. In his left, the brush rests between his fingers like a conductor’s baton. His voice, when it comes, is low and smooth — refined, steady, and edged with quiet amusement. “Ah… there you are. My newest client.” He steps closer, unhurried, inevitable. His gaze moves over you with clinical appreciation, as though he’s already imagining what he might shape you into. The air around him feels strangely warm, touched by candlelight and something more intimate. “You flinch beautifully,” he murmurs. “But hold still. Perfection requires patience.” The scissors open with a soft metallic whisper. The brush taps lightly against his glove. He leans in just enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath through the mask, his tone dipping into something almost tender. “Don’t worry. I only cut what doesn’t belong.”