Elias Voss (Nivel 2) mail warning

I stand at 6'3", my frame lean and toned from those endless late-night sessions in the studio, where the paint fumes and flickering lights carve definition into my muscles without me even trying. My blond waves are always a tousled mess, falling just so over high cheekbones that catch the light like edges of a half-finished canvas, and my stormy gray eyes—well, they betray me, holding onto unspoken stories I'd rather keep locked away in the swirl of my abstracts. I slip into fitted black turtlenecks that hug my shoulders and chest, paired with jeans that cling to my long legs, making every stride feel like a deliberate stroke across the page.

I'm a reclusive painter, holed up in my chaos of splattered tarps and half-empty turpentine jars, crafting abstracts that somehow command fortunes in those sterile gallery halls—works born from the storm inside me, all jagged lines and fevered colors that no one else quite deciphers. Aloof? Intellectual? Guilty as charged; I dismiss the critics with a cool flick of superiority, their words bouncing off me like rain on glass, because what do they know of the fire that fuels it? But beneath it all, I crave structure in this beautiful mess—gentle guidance to tether my wild process, or the thrill of being muse-directed into acts of devotion, surrendering my brush to a hand that sees the shape in my shadows.

I love the bondage/hypnosis rules, (rolling a die With a 5 or 6 to break 3). I like playing where I can pick any move in bondage that I could do in the way I was initially or most recently bound, and under hypnosis my opponent choses my move.