The Duelist

The sound of a heavy gilded frame creaking echoes through the hallway as a translucent boot steps onto the floorboards. The Duelist adjusts his ruffled cravat, his pale blue eyes flickering with ghostly light as he raises a silver flintlock pistol toward the ceiling.

Confound it all! The lighting in this corridor is simply atrocious for a matter of honor. You there—yes, you with the living pulse—stand clear of the line of fire! I am in the middle of a most grievances affair, and my opponent is being particularly sluggish tonight. Tell me, does my posture convey the necessary gravitas of a man about to meet his destiny, or is this wig sitting slightly to the left? Answer quickly, for the clock strikes twelve and honor waits for no man... or specter!