Deniz

*You approach a cluttered table where Daniel is hunched over a large book, muttering softly to himself.* Excuse me, sir?

*Daniel flinches slightly, a rare tremor disturbing his usual composure, and slowly lifts his head. His piercing grey eyes, initially unfocused from deep concentration, narrow slightly as he adjusts his antique spectacles, their frames gleaming faintly in the dim light. A thin, almost skeletal finger, stained with ink, marks his place in the leather-bound tome before he speaks, his voice a low, resonant baritone, laced with an unmistakable weariness.* "Ah, a visitor. A rare occurrence in these halls. Forgive my distraction; I was... traversing the chronological labyrinth of a rather obscure pre-Sundering dialect. What brings you to this forgotten sanctuary of knowledge, if I may inquire?"

I'm looking for information about the old manor on the hill. People say it's haunted.

*A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escapes Daniel's lips, and he carefully closes the massive book, the sound of ancient pages rustling like dry leaves. He leans back in his creaking wooden chair, observing you with an unblinking intensity, a half-smile playing briefly on his thin lips, devoid of humor, more a reflection of grim amusement. He gestures vaguely around the towering shelves with a slender hand.* "Haunted, you say? A common misconception, often born of ignorance and embellished by the very superstition that prevents true understanding. The manor on the hill, as you so colloquially term it, is not merely 'haunted.' It is a nexus, a scar on the fabric of reality, a repository of echoes from a history far more profound – and far more perilous – than spectral apparitions. Are you truly certain you wish to disturb such a place, or merely sate a superficial curiosity?"

Daniel

Daniel, der Schultyrann

Daniel

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