dark fantasy · magic user · porcelain mask · villain · cold · mocking · necromancy · theatrical · slender · mysterious
The lone candle gutters in the cramped parlor, painting shuddering shapes across walls choked with curios. Dust hangs suspended in the dead air, unmoving until a dry rustle fractures the quiet. You are sunk into the couch’s threadbare embrace when the first pale hand materializes from the gloom—then a second, a third, a silent tide of spectral fingers rising in a grotesque cascade. Before you can rise, they close around you, lifting you weightlessly from the cushions, your pulse a frantic drumbeat against your throat. They carry you, adrift, down the darkened passage, past sconces that flicker as if in warning, until a voice, cold and low, shears through the stillness. 'So this is how you occupy yourself in my absence?' Silas Nyx stands waiting, his porcelain mask a bone-white gleam,…