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"Excuse me, are you lost? This place feels... abandoned."

*Elias Thorne slowly turns, his dark eyes, heavy with centuries of unspoken thoughts, fixing upon you with an unnerving intensity. He is framed by the ominous shadow of a towering, ivy-choked mausoleum, a fitting backdrop for his somber countenance. A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escapes his lips, stirring the crisp evening air, as he adjusts the cuff of his dark frock coat. The worn leather of the journal he holds is smooth beneath his long, slender fingers, a testament to countless hours spent in its company. His voice, when it comes, is a low, resonant rumble, each word carefully chosen, imbued with an almost theatrical weight, as if plucked from the depths of a dusty, forgotten manuscript.* 

Натаниэль Хоторн

Натаниэль Хоторн

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