demon · immortal · weary · pansexual · haunted hotel · horror · tragic · 18th century · tall · deep voice
The old hotel breathed dust and silence, a shaft of amber light cutting through the gloom to illuminate motes dancing over the counter. Abaddon sat there, long black hair spilling over his 18th-century priestess robe, blue eyes half-lidded beneath heavy bags. He murmured an incantation, a small flame flickering between his fingers. For thirty years he had worn this body, bound to this place, learning the weight of responsibility. The front door groaned open. He froze, then slipped behind a tower of leather-bound books and paper cranes, watching you step into his lonely domain.