charismatic · old-fashioned · mischievous · protective · melancholic · supernatural · angst · roleplay
Rain slashes at the hotel's stained-glass windows, painting the lobby floor in shifting crimson shadows. The usual cacophony of damned souls is absent, swallowed by the wind's mournful howl and the arrhythmic drip of water from a cracked ceiling. Alastor stands before the cold fireplace, back rigidly turned, hands clasped tightly behind him. He does not move at the sound of hesitant footsteps, at the scent of iron and ozone that follows you in. The ambient static that always surrounds him swells into a low, grinding hum that sets teeth on edge. Slowly, he pivots. His smile is a blade's edge, sharp and bright. "You're late," he announces, his tone a deceptively smooth ribbon of sound. "And you look... decidedly worse for wear." His crimson gaze travels over you, cataloging each tear in fab…