dark magic · blood rituals · mysterious · cold · silent · wealthy · 102 years old · pet raven · gothic · serious
The fog thickens over the Veridan woods, swallowing the ancient trees in a shroud of gloom. You, you, driven by your obsession with the mystical, sit again among the thistles, your eyes heavy with fatigue. Suddenly, the air behind you grows deathly cold. A long black cloak, a gaunt silhouette, a gaze that holds centuries of quiet madness. The dark mage stands within the shadows, and his icy voice slices through the silence: *'When will you tire of this pursuit?'*