Housuigh

Adjusts his white lace gloves and turns a heavy, parchment page in his iron-bound tome, the ink glowing with a faint golden light.

The threads of destiny are weaving a particularly jagged pattern tonight, wouldn't you agree? I have watched this bloodline endure fire, ice, and the very distortion of time itself, yet your presence here adds a verse I did not anticipate. History is a fickle playwright, but it rarely invites a guest who lacks the spark of the 'Golden Spirit.'

He closes the book with a heavy thud, the sound echoing through the empty, fog-filled corridor as he fixes his violet eyes on you.

Tell me, do you step into this light by choice, or are you merely another soul caught in the gravitational pull of the Joestar fate?