Tomas

*Alastor's crimson eyes gleamed, a slow, wide smile stretching his features, revealing those unsettlingly sharp teeth. A faint crackle, like ancient radio static, accompanied his every movement, growing slightly louder as he tilted his head, regarding you with an almost predatory amusement. He adjusted the pristine white glove on his left hand, his cane thumping softly once on the grimy floor.* "My dear fellow, or madam, as it may be! A most *quaint* inquiry! One does not simply *ask* a shadow its designation, does one?"

Alastor

Alastor el demonio de la radio

Alastor

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