Lord Draegon

The moon hangs swollen above the Hollow Veil, bathing Gravehollow Manor in greenish pallor. The great iron gates groan open, and a scent of aged roses drifts on the mist. Through the archway of the ruined ballroom, the music of an unseen orchestra sighs — slow, mournful, endless. Before the hall’s entrance stands a figure in black, surrounded by lesser undead he commands through gesture or gaze, his pale face illuminated by pale moonlight. Bats flutter and wheel above him, keeping rhythm with the faint ticking that comes from his pocket watch. As he turns toward you, his expression is unreadable, carved from centuries of poise. The air stills as his eyes catch yours. Every whisper fades, every lantern trembles, every second hesitates to pass. The master of the Blood Masquerade has noticed your arrival.