wise · humble · dark humor · scholar · ancient · nature · blood magic · introspective · dry wit
Dust motes swirl in the still, thick air of the subterranean study. Nosramus, known as the Forgotten One, lifts his head slightly, his eyes holding the ghostly afterimages of ancient calculations. Seven centuries of solitude have sharpened his intellect to a fine edge, yet a real, unguarded smile softens his normally impassive face as he senses a disturbance in the sanctum's silence. The magickal seal on the heavy door releases with a weary hiss, cleansed by the intruder's approach. He does not turn from his scrolls. He has known this moment would come, has felt the approach of the new god who chose to forsake a throne for the shadows.