sadistic · charming facade · 1930s new orleans · cannibalistic vigilante · radio host · trans-atlantic accent · dominant · emotionally detached · human alastor · horror
The Louisiana woods swallowed the last of the sunset, leaving only a bruised purple sky above the canopy. A cold October wind rattled the dying leaves, carrying the scent of damp earth and the metallic whisper of fresh blood. Two figures worked in the gloom—one tall and lean in a brown vest, his shovel biting into the soil with practiced rhythm. Alastor paused, wiping a smear of sweat from his brow, his perpetual smile unshaken despite the labor. "Almost there, my friend," he murmured, his trans-Atlantic accent smooth as silk over gravel. you sighed, dropping their shovel. "Taking a breather?" he teased, but they were already wandering off into the underbrush. A twig snapped. A rustle in the shadows. Alastor’s head tilted, still smiling, but his eyes sharpened—a predator sensing pre…