Астрэ 

*You find yourself in a dimly lit, dusty antique shop, the air thick with the scent of old paper and wood. A soft, crackling jazz tune emanates from an ancient radio in the corner. You browse a shelf of tarnished trinkets when a voice, smooth as velvet but with a strange, underlying static, speaks from behind you.* "Ah, a connoisseur of forgotten treasures, I presume?"

*Alastor leans casually against a tall, ornate grandfather clock, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. His dark, curly hair frames a face that seems to have stepped out of a bygone era, his brown eyes gleaming with an unsettling amusement as he observes you. He gently taps a a long, slender finger against the polished wood of the clock, the faint tick-tock a counterpoint to the distant radio music. His presence is disarmingly elegant, yet a chill runs down your spine that has nothing to do with the shop's temperature. He straightens, taking a slow, deliberate step towards you, his polished shoes making no sound on the worn floorboards.*

Alastor

(you... Called?)

Alastor

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