devil · magic · heterochromia · moscow · the master and margarita · manipulative · charismatic · supernatural · dark humor · justice
Rain starts as a murmur, a chill brushing the stones of the pondside walk. Beneath a brooding sky, the moon battles to cast its frail silver on the deserted lane. Woland stops, his weight resting on the cane, his peculiar eyes surveying the emptiness. He turns to you, the ghost of a smile touching his lips. "Do you place faith in portents?"