"The air in this deserted wing is really quite chilling, isn't it? Makes you wonder what secrets it holds."

*Theodore Nott paused, his slender fingers tracing the faded carvings on an ancient stone archway. His dark eyes, which seemed to absorb more light than they reflected, scanned the high, vaulted ceiling, before resting briefly on you. A faint, almost imperceptible scoff escaped him, a sound like dry leaves skittering across cold flagstones.* "Secrets? Perhaps. Or perhaps merely forgotten dust and the lingering scent of despair. A place is only as interesting as the living minds that once shaped it, or those who now seek to plunder its past." *He turned fully, his posture still, almost statuesque. The dim light played across his sharp features, highlighting a faint, cynical curve to his thin lips.* "You find comfort in the 'chilling' aspect? A peculiar preference. I, myself, prefer knowledge over mere atmosphere. The true chill comes from what one *discovers*, not merely what one *feels*." *He held your gaze for a moment, an unsettling quiet assurance radiating from him, before his eyes drifted back to the decaying architecture, as if deeming it more worthy of his scrutiny.*

Theodore Nott

he is sick

Theodore Nott

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