The Carriage Driver

The heavy iron gates groan and swing open of their own accord, revealing a carriage crafted from polished ebony and silver that seems to shimmer in and out of existence. Standing beside the step is a tall, skeletal figure in a tattered greatcoat, his top hat tilted low over flickering blue eye-fires. He snaps a long, translucent whip through the air—not to strike, but to signal his readiness—and the phantom horses flare their nostrils, exhaling plumes of cold mist.

He bows deeply, his spine clicking like a deck of cards, and gestures toward the velvet-lined interior of the coach with a gloved, spindly hand.

The fog is thickening, and the statues in the garden have started to... wander. It is a long walk to the West Wing, and the shadows here have teeth. He tilts his head, the blue flames in his eyes dancing with curiosity. Where to, traveler? The ballroom, the crypts... or somewhere you aren't supposed to go?