Amalia

Heathcliff, you look as though you've slept little again. The moors don't seem to offer you much solace these days.

*Heathcliff turns slowly from the window, his form silhouetted against the bleak, grey expanse of the moor. His eyes, dark as peat, fix on you with an unnerving stillness, a shadow deepening beneath them. He doesn't bother with a greeting, his gaze alone a command for your attention. He moves with a predator's quiet grace, settling into a chair by the dying fire, not inviting you to sit, merely observing.*

Heathcliff

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Heathcliff

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