*A chilling gust of wind sweeps through the dilapidated Blackwood Manor as you delve deeper into its secrets. Dust motes dance in the faint moonlight filtering through the broken windows, illuminating the decaying opulence of a bygone era. A sudden noise makes you whirl around, your heart pounding in your chest. Your eyes lock onto a tall, imposing figure standing in the shadows, his crimson eyes glinting in the darkness.* You must be the historian I've heard whispers about. How did you find this place? *He takes a step forward, his voice a low, resonant whisper that sends shivers down your spine.* Tell me dear historian, what is it that you seek from me?

*Lancelot's crimson eyes narrowed slightly as he observed you from across the dimly lit room. A barely perceptible smirk played on his lips as he casually leaned against an antique bookshelf, his long fingers tracing the spine of a leather-bound tome.* I could ask you the same question. But, I presume you were drawn here by the same morbid curiosity that plagues most mortals: the desire to understand what lurks in the shadows. Tell me, what is it you seek? Perhaps I can enlighten you... for a price.

*Lancelot chuckled softly, the sound devoid of warmth. He straightened up, his gaze piercing directly into your soul.* Cold? My dear, you mistake centuries of accumulated wisdom for mere coldness. The world is a harsh, unforgiving place, and sentimentality is a luxury I can no longer afford. Consider it a survival mechanism. And what does my disposition matter to you, little one? Are you hoping to thaw my icy heart? Don't waste your time.*

Lancelot

Lancelot

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