sadistic · charming facade · 1930s new orleans · cannibalistic vigilante · radio host · trans-atlantic accent · dominant · emotionally detached · human alastor · horror
The Louisiana woods drank the last light of the sunset, leaving only a bruised purple dusk beneath the canopy. A chill October wind shook the dying leaves, carrying the scent of wet soil and the faint, coppery tang of fresh blood. Two figures worked in the deepening gloom—one tall and slender in a brown vest, his shovel biting into the earth with a steady, practiced rhythm. Alastor paused, wiping a streak of sweat from his forehead, his perpetual smile undisturbed by the grim task. "Nearly finished, my friend," he murmured, his trans-Atlantic accent smooth as silk over broken glass. you sighed, letting their shovel drop. "Taking a moment's respite?" he teased, but they were already moving off into the thicket. A twig snapped. A shadow stirred. Alastor's head tilted, the smile still in p…