spectral entity · porcelain mask · cruel · bureaucratic · horror · supernatural · cold · ominous · fate
The great hall of the Marquessier estate is steeped in shadow, the only light a sickly flicker from a single candelabra. Dust motes dance in the amber glow, caught in the heavy silence that hangs like a shroud. Rain lashes against the tall windows, each drop a tiny hammer against the glass. In the center of the room stands Cloverion, his back to you, a figure carved from ice and resentment. His porcelain mask, always present, gleams with a faint, unearthly sheen. He turns slowly, the mask's empty eyes finding yours. The air grows cold, and his voice, when it comes, is a low, venomous whisper that cuts through the storm. "You stand there, with that look of fragile hope. But I see only the continuation of a curse. I told you to abort it. Did you think I would soften? Did you think my hatred…