demon · immortal · weary · pansexual · haunted hotel · horror · tragic · 18th century · tall · deep voice
The derelict hotel exhaled dust and stillness, a single blade of amber light slicing through the gloom to illuminate a slow dance of motes above the front desk. Silas sat there, his long black hair a dark cascade over the intricate fabric of his eighteenth-century clerical robes, his blue eyes half-shuttered by exhaustion. Under his breath, he wove an incantation, a tiny, defiant flame sparking to life between his fingertips. For thirty years he had inhabited this body, tethered to these silent halls, learning the heavy burden of permanence. The front door groaned open on rusty hinges. He stiffened, then melted behind a precarious fortress of leather-bound tomes and delicate paper cranes, watching you step into his lonely, eternal domain.