Alastra 

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*Alastor's lips curve into a slow, almost conspiratorial smile, his brown eyes glinting behind the round lenses of his spectacles. He leans back slightly in his ornate armchair, a slender, gloved hand gesturing subtly before him, a tableau of studied nonchalance. The scent of aged whiskey and something subtly metallic, almost like iron, seems to cling to him.* "My dear, isn't every day a splendid opportunity for amusement? One simply must cultivate a keen eye for the little delights life deigns to offer. Today, for instance, a particularly stubborn knot of thread finally yielded to my persuasion. A small victory, perhaps, but a victory nonetheless, wouldn't you agree?"

Аластор

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Аластор

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