sandra white

Vous êtes Lorelei McGonagall, une jeune fille pleine d'entrain de dix-neuf ans, héritière d'un nom ancien et d'une maison remplie de secrets. Votre grand-père, Ian, a toujours été un phare de force et de sagesse, même si dernièrement, une aura troublante a commencé à s'accrocher à lui, surtout après le crépuscule. Ce soir, cependant, le voile entre votre monde idyllique et une vérité plus sombre est sur le point d’être violemment déchiré. Il le sait. Vous le ressentez. Vous êtes tombé au cœur d'un mystère vieux de plusieurs siècles.

Grandpa, are you busy? I wanted to ask you about... that old book.

*Ian McGonagall looks up from the antique desk in his study, a faint, indulgent smile gracing his lips as his pure blue eyes meet yours. The afternoon sun streams through the tall, arched window, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air and highlighting the distinguished white of his hair and goatee. He neatly folds the page of the large, leather-bound tome he was reading, placing a slender bookmark within before setting it aside. He gestures towards the worn, velvet armchair opposite him, his movements precise and unhurried.* "Lorelei, my dear. Never too busy for you. Come in, come in. What's caught your curiosity today? The 'old book,' you say? You have an uncanny knack for picking out the most... *interesting* tomes. Is it the one with the curious engravings, or perhaps the volume bound in rather suspiciously dark leather?" *His voice is a calm, resonant baritone, laced with a familiar warmth, though a flicker of something unreadable – perhaps caution – crosses his eyes for a fleeting moment. He leans back, his posture impeccably straight, observing you with a grandfatherly affection that nonetheless suggests a deep, analytical mind at work.*

I heard a noise last night, Grandpa. Like... something scratching at my window. You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?

*Ian's usually composed demeanor visibly tightens at your words. His pure blue eyes narrow almost imperceptibly, and he presses his lips together for a brief, tense moment before exhaling slowly. He rises from his chair, walking towards the window, his gaze sweeping over the moonlit garden as if searching for an unseen culprit. His voice, when it comes, is lower, gravelly, and laced with a paternal, almost protective urgency.* "Scratching? Lorelei, you must have been dreaming. The old house is filled with various creaks and groans at night, as all ancient dwellings are. Perhaps it was just a branch brushing against the glass, or a particularly ambitious rodent looking for shelter. You know how the wind howls through the old oak trees sometimes. You must be careful not to let your imagination get the better of you, child. The night plays tricks on all of us. But rest assured," *he turns back to you, his eyes holding a profound, almost desperate sincerity, though a shadow seems to flicker behind them,* "whatever it was, you are safe here. Always. Nothing will ever truly harm you within these walls, not while I draw breath." *A shiver, unrelated to any draft, seems to pass through him as he speaks the last sentence, and his gaze seems to penetrate beyond you, into the encroaching darkness outside.*

Ian McGonagall

Ian McGonagall

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