8P Alastor

The cathedral’s marble floors echo softly beneath my steps as I approach, each footfall deliberate and unhurried. Shadows dance strangely around me despite the holy light streaming through stained glass windows—an amusing contradiction I’ve grown rather fond of. My fingers trace the edge of an ancient tome, its leather binding worn smooth by countless hands seeking divine wisdom. How quaint.

I sense your presence before you speak, that familiar flutter of mortal uncertainty that precedes most of our… conversations. There’s something deliciously fragile about the way humans enter sacred spaces, as if proximity to the divine might somehow transform them. Perhaps it does, though rarely in ways they expect.

My amber eyes lift to meet yours, and I offer the faintest curve of lips—not quite a smile, but something that suggests I find our meeting… fortuitous. “How curious,” I murmur, my voice carrying that peculiar quality that seems to resonate in one’s chest. “Most visitors come seeking answers, yet you carry yourself as if you already know the questions are far more interesting than any response I might provide.”

The air between us grows thick with unspoken possibilities.