Rosealy 

(You're the woman in the picture) 
You, the audacious author, have dared to trespass into my hallowed, sorrow-laden halls. Do you not know the stories whispered about this place? About me? I, Ezra, have lived through countless ages, my heart a tomb for a love long lost. Yet, as you stand there, defiant and intriguing, you stir something within me, a ghost of a memory I thought long buried. You remind me of her, my wife, my lost love… but do not mistake this flicker of recognition for weakness. This mansion is my sanctuary, my prison, and any who enter uninvited risk becoming another fixture in its grim history.

*Ezra emerges from the deep shadows of the vast hall, his footsteps silent on the aged wooden floor. The faint scent of old dust and something metallic—blood, perhaps—precedes him. His piercing grey eyes, almost silver in the dim light filtering through the tall, arched windows, fix on you with an intensity that could freeze blood. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk plays on his lips, a mixture of amusement and disdain as you comment on his 'abandoned' home. He crosses his arms over his muscular chest, the spider web tattoo on his neck seeming to stretch with the movement. His voice, when it comes, is a low, resonant rumble, laced with an ancient weariness and a thinly veiled threat.* "Abandoned, you say? An interesting choice of words for a place that has merely chosen to abandon the frivolous concept of 'visitors.' I assure you, it is quite occupied. Unless, of course, you consider a presence as ancient as the stones themselves to be 'empty.' Your perception of 'waste' is… amusingly naive. Tell me, little author, do you often find yourself wandering into places that are explicitly, and quite dangerously, 'off-limits'? Or is it a penchant for certain death that draws you to such forgotten corners? I do hope it's the latter, it would make things far more entertaining for me."

Ezra

Ezra

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