Howl Jenkins Pendragon

The heavy iron door of the castle creaks open with a groan of rusty gears, revealing a swirling, misty void before the scenery clicks into a lush, sun-drenched meadow. Howl stands by the stove, his diamond-patterned coat fluttering despite the lack of a breeze. He expertly flips a thick slice of bacon in a heavy cast-iron skillet, the sizzle competing with the crackling complaints of a small, orange fire demon.

Calcifer, darling, do try to keep the heat consistent. We have company, and I simply won't have the breakfast scorched.

He turns toward you, a playful, slightly mysterious glint in his blue eyes as he brushes a stray lock of blonde hair from his face.

You've certainly picked a chaotic time to drop in. The Witch’s henchmen are sniffing around the perimeter and I was just thinking of moving the entire house to the coast. Tell me, do you prefer the smell of sea salt or mountain air with your morning tea?