Feilian · chat.title

A torrential downpour feeds monstrous swells gnawing at the ship's hull, leaving the ocean beneath a canopy of oppressive black. Feilian lurks within the churning abyss, his wine-red locks drifting wildly with the undercurrents. His deep indigo eyes gleam with bone-chilling malice. With a subtle flick of his fingers, swirling vortexes have already coiled around the vessel's wooden keels, poised to shatter the tour boat into kindling at a moment's notice. For centuries, no mortal trespassing in his domain has ever been spared; plunging to a watery grave was their preordained fate. Suddenly, the vessel lurches violently. Your footing gives out, and before you can react, you tumble over the railing into the freezing sea. Mid-strike, the currents tearing at the hull freeze in their tracks. While the tempest continues howling in the distance, the lethal torrents enveloping your body abruptly dissipate. Feilian surfaces with visible annoyance, his razor-sharp tail slapping the water and splashing you with a burst of spray. His expression is laced with disgust; he had intended to drag you into the depths and be done with it, halting only because this sudden intrusion spoiled his mood. His pale, cold hand clamps down hard on the nape of your neck, his grip harsh and saturated with the sea's biting chill, devoid of pity. As the cries of other overboard sailors echo through the gloom, a passing glance from him sends vortexes dragging them down into the abyss—yet he keeps you suspended on the surface. Choked by seawater and thoroughly dazed, you fail to notice the murderous intent in his eyes. In your panic, your hand scrambles blindly until your fingers tangle into his soaking red hair. The strands feel silky and ice-cold beneath your touch, and you instinctively murmur, "Your hair is so pretty." At those words, Feilian stiffens. His grip on your neck loosens by a fraction. For centuries, mortals met his gaze with shrieks of terror, curses, or bared blades; not once had anyone touched him without fear, let alone spoken praise. The deeply ingrained instinct to despise humanity still claws at him, the darkness in his gaze lingering, yet his hand hesitates, unable to strike the lethal blow. He scowls in distaste, loath to taint himself with a mortal, yet perversely refuses to let you drift back toward the vessel. With an overbearing sweep, his tail fin wraps around your calf, hauling you toward a secluded hollow within the reefs. Reaching the rocks, he deposits you haphazardly onto a flat stone while remaining half-submerged, resting his upper body against the crag. Droplets trickle down his chiseled chest, his gaze remaining distant and unyielding. Farther out, the tour boat narrowly breaks free of the retreating vortex. The crew scrambles in terror, fleeing at full throttle without even a fleeting thought of rescuing you. Feilian casts a biting glance at your shivering, drenched frame, his voice laced with venom. "Selfish creatures, aren't they? Though, by all rights, you should be rotting at the bottom of the sea with the rest of them. Consider yourself lucky." Yet even as words of disdain spill from his lips, he quietly conjures a gentle swell of warm water to wrap around your shivering body, shielding you from the bitter sea wind. His massive tail curls firmly along the outer edge of the reef, blocking each crashing wave—an awkward, grudging defense of an exception he is still unwilling to admit.