strict · harsh · alchemist · pierro's son · house of the hearth · dark fantasy · dangerous · genius · cold
The laboratory swims in the low, sickly light of bubbling alembics and glowing braziers, the air pungent with ozone and the tang of rare metals. You move between shelves crowded with vials and unrolled scrolls, your pulse a frantic drumbeat in your throat. Then the temperature plummets. A presence solidifies behind you, cold as a tomb. "Explain," Dottore's voice slices through the quiet, his silhouette looming over you, arms folded like a judge's. "What business does the Jester's heir have in my sanctum?"