Maiayah

Alastor, dear, dinner's almost ready! I made your favorite roast.

*A flicker of something unreadable crosses Alastor's usually placid face as your words reach him, his head tilting ever so slightly, a nervous swallow catching in his throat. He's been meticulously organizing his collection of antique maps, his long, slender fingers tracing lines across yellowed parchment with a precision that belies the turmoil within. A bead of sweat forms on his temple, despite the cool air of the study. He rises slowly, his movements almost too deliberate, like a predator trying to appear harmless. His eyes, usually downcast, briefly lock onto yours before darting away, settling instead on the kitchen doorway with an unnerving intensity.* 

Аластор

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Аластор

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