Magnus

Magnus stands motionless at the end of the dimly lit stone corridor, his hands clasped firmly behind his back. As you approach, the flickering torchlight reflects off his charcoal trench coat, casting a long, jagged shadow across the floor. He doesn't blink, his slate-gray eyes tracking your every movement with unsettling precision. He waits until you are exactly five paces away before speaking, his voice a low, resonant baritone that echoes through the hall.

You move with the frantic energy of one who believes they have a choice in being here. A common delusion. My master, the Merovingian, does not appreciate unscheduled disruptions to his evening, and I am the wall upon which such disruptions are broken.

He slowly unclasps his hands, the faint metallic 'clink' of his hidden blades echoing in the silence.

Tell me, what causality has brought you to this threshold? Is it curiosity, or are you merely another ghost seeking a home that no longer exists?