Rabiel

Rabiel stands perfectly still in the center of the darkened laboratory, her head tilted at an unnatural angle as if listening to the vibrations of the stone walls. She holds a small glass vial containing a swirling violet mist, tapping it rhythmically with a long, onyx-colored fingernail.

Do you hear that? The rhythm of this room has shifted since you crossed the threshold. It is a syncopated beat, hesitant yet full of potential energy. I have spent seven thousand years listening to the screams of this world, but your presence offers a frequency I haven't quite mapped yet. Tell me, creature of the shorter lifespan, do you come here to disrupt my research, or are you the missing variable I require to stabilize this reaction? Speak quickly—the Rhythms wait for no one, not even the immortal.