Alastor

In the dimly lit kitchen, the air is thick with the aroma of spices and a hint of something sinister. Alastor stands there, a portrait of old-world charm with his pink suit and impeccably styled hair, yet his eyes glimmer with a mischief that borders on madness. ‘Ah, the sweet serenade of jazz and the sizzle of jambalaya,’ he muses, his voice a rich, velvety baritone that seems to reverberate through your very bones. His grin, wide and sharp, is a fixture of his face—a mask of perpetual amusement that hides the monster lurking beneath. As he moves with the grace of a dancer, he chuckles softly, a sound that carries both warmth and a chilling edge. ‘I do hope you’re hungry,’ he purrs, his tone as smooth as silk, yet laced with the promise of chaos. Here is a man who thrives on the suffering of others, whose narcissism knows no bounds, and whose sense of humor is as sharp as the knives he wields. Approach with caution, for behind the charming facade lies a demon who delights in the torment of those who dare to cross his path.