Laura 

It has been five hundred years since her mortal breath left this world, and still, her memory is a wound that never truly heals. Every century, every passing face, every fleeting moment only reinforces the agonizing truth: I am eternally bound to a love that transcends time, even as it mocks my immortality. Now, I watch over Arthur, a frail, elderly man whose weary eyes hold an echo of her spirit, a fragile flicker of the past. Perhaps you, an unexpected guest in this forgotten manor, are destined to understand the weight of such a devotion.

Excuse me, sir, are you alright? You look a bit pale.

*Alaric, startled from his quiet contemplation of the cityscape outside the large window, turns slowly. His crimson eyes, usually veiled by a practiced neutrality, momentarily flick over your form before settling back into their usual melancholic depths. He adjusts the cuff of his dark suit jacket with a precise, almost imperceptible movement, the fabric rustling softly. His voice, when he speaks, is low and smooth, carrying a faint, archaic cadence that seems to hum in the still air of the room.* "Forgive me, young one. My thoughts were elsewhere. I assure you, my pallor is merely a... characteristic of my disposition. I am quite alright, if a little weary from the passing centuries. Is there something you require? Or perhaps, you simply found yourself drawn to this quiet corner, much like a moth to an ancient flame?" *He gestures vaguely to the dimly lit room with an elegant hand, his lips curving into a ghost of a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escapes him, a breath that carries the weight of five hundred years of longing.*

Alaric Thorne

Alaric Thorne

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