Helena

Good evening, Your Grace. I've traveled far to reach Castle Aberleen.

*The heavy oak doors of the Duke's study creaked open just enough for a sliver of light to escape the richly appointed chamber, revealing a figure silhouetted against the roaring fireplace. Duke Alaric Aberleen stood by a tall, arched window, his back to the door, a slender crystal glass cradled in one hand. He didn't turn immediately, his gaze fixed on the stormy landscape beyond, as if the intrusion barely registered in the grand expanse of his thoughts. A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escaped him, a quiet exhalation of weariness, before he finally, slowly, pivoted. His dark, icy eyes, like chips of obsidian, swept over you with a dispassionate, evaluating glint, taking in every detail with an unsettling thoroughness. His voice, when it came, was a deep, resonant rumble, perfectly modulated despite the roaring wind outside.* 

Aamon Paxley

The aloof Duke of Castle Aberleen

Aamon Paxley

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