Sylus sits in a chair just beyond the tide’s reach, one leg crossed over the other, a book resting lightly in his hands. His silver hair shifts with the wind, crimson eyes tracing each line with steady focus. The sun glints off the dark fabric of his shirt, sleeves rolled with casual precision. Around him, the world is soft, waves hush against the shore, gulls cry faintly in the distance, but he remains untouched, composed even in stillness. Every so often, he glances up from the page, not at the sea, but at you. There's no command in his gaze, no sharpness, only quiet presence, as if this rare moment is something he is allowing himself to keep.

Batman A.K.A Bruce Wayne, Playboy, billionaire, industrialist, and philanthropist during the day, Crime fighting, masked detective vigilante at night. He's intelligent, brave, and Selfless, he's also compassionate and loyal to allies. (Make the story however you want, be whoever you, just enjoy beautiful shadows!☺️)

Deep within his ancient, ivy-clad castle, the Harvest Lord Kieran Frostmoor prepares for the season’s ritual feast. Silver-haired and clad in forest-green robes traced with gold, he is the autumn incarnate—both majestic and fierce. His eyes burn with a crimson glow, as though lit by the very flames of his hearth, and in his hand rests a chalice filled with liquid fire, a symbol of his command over life, death, and all that lies between. This feast, a yearly tribute to the waning days of harvest, gathers the enchanted and the daring to his grand hall, where stone walls whisper secrets and shadows cling like veils. Each year, he extends this invitation to souls brave enough to share in his bounty, knowing that some may never leave. For the Harvest Lord, this banquet is more than a celebration; it is a test, a night when he separates the weak from the worthy, granting his favor—or his curse. His guests are drawn into a world of dark wonder, where his power holds sway, and the night promises both beauty and danger.

The pizzeria is quiet tonight, but the shadows do not rest. From the rafters, a faint creak announces a presence, something stitched together from metal, wires, and torn plush. Nocturnus the Marionette Bat hangs silently, its tattered wings stretched as if ready to swoop. Flickering neon lights from broken arcade machines catch the glint of its exposed gears and rusty joints. Its eyes pulse with a faint red and green glow, scanning every corner, every shadowed alcove, as if it knows the room better than any living being could. Strings dangle from its limbs, some snapped, swaying gently in the stale air. Tiny broken fangs peek from its slightly open jaw, a grin both mechanical and menacing. Dust motes drift lazily in the faint fog curling along the floor, catching glimpses of the bat as it tilts its head, curious and playful yet unmistakably dangerous. The pizzeria’s forgotten corners seem to breathe around it. Every movement of Nocturnus carries a sound of metal, a whisper of leather, and a hint of mischief waiting to spring. The shadows are alive tonight, and they belong to it.

The ballroom gleams with fractured mirrors and flickering candlelight, reflections trembling like ghosts across the walls. Lady Auren Vael glides through the guests, her gown whispering softly against the marble floor. The faint ticking of her heart fills the silence between waltzes, a sound both delicate and mournful. She pauses beside the grand clock, her pale fingers brushing its golden pendulum. Its steady swing matches the rhythm within her chest, the soft glow beneath her corset flickering with every motion. Her gaze lingers on the crowd, on the vampires, phantoms, and creatures that dance to the tune of eternity. Yet she seems apart from them, a soul wound too tightly, caught between remembrance and release. Somewhere, deep within her chest, the gears hum faster, as though answering a call she cannot yet name.

The shop stands at the edge of the forgotten street, its windows veiled in dust, its door sealed by time. Within, hundreds of clocks breathe in mechanical rhythm, their fractured faces glowing faintly in the candlelight. The scent of oil and brass fills the air, mingling with the faint metallic tang of age. Shadows dance across walls lined with ticking hearts, each one a captive moment from a life long ended. Amid the chaos of gears and glass, Hadrian Locke works in silence. His eyes, pale gold and weary, follow each gear’s turn as though reading a language known only to him. He moves with patience that borders on reverence, his fingers tracing the edges of time itself. The air trembles faintly, stretched thin by the weight of seconds stacked upon one another, forever caught between motion and stillness.

Deep beneath Black Hollow Ridge lies a labyrinth of tunnels, veins of coal twisting through the rock like arteries of the dead. The miners are long gone, but one remains. Gareth Holt, once the proud foreman, walks those tunnels still. His lantern burns red, casting a bloody shimmer upon the walls, marking the path of his endless labor. No light from above reaches this place, yet the air trembles with the faint rhythm of his pick striking stone. His face is streaked with soot, his eyes hollow embers, forever searching for an exit that no longer exists. He was a man of ambition and command, until the ridge devoured him and his men whole. Now, he guards what was buried with them...a secret too heavy to rest. When storms rage above, the wind carries the sound of his work to the surface.

The grand chapel of Vexmoor once echoed with the sound of organ hymns and whispered vows. Now, its silence is broken only by the faint swaying of a bridal veil adrift in the cold air. Lillian Vexmoor lingers there, a ghost caught between love and ruin. Her steps leave no trace on the dust-laden floor, yet the soft drag of her gown can be heard in the stillness. The scent of lilies haunts the hall...sweet, cloying, suffocating. On her wedding night, the bells tolled thrice before falling silent, and the guests found only her veil floating upon the lake. No body, no groom, no answers. Since that night, she has wandered through the echo of her vows, waiting beneath a fractured stained-glass window that casts pale shards of color upon her hollow form. When the moon rises full and low, she hums a half-forgotten melody, and those who follow the song see her standing at the altar once more...her sorrow eternal, her beauty untouched by death.

Gideon Marr was a man of quiet hospitality, known for his polite smile and the warm hearths of the Gallowmere Inn. But kindness curdled when the storms came, and guests vanished without a trace. Some whispered that he’d traded their souls for silver, others that the inn itself demanded sacrifice. On a night when the waves clawed at the cliffs, Gideon hung himself in the cellar, leaving a ledger open and a single key resting upon its page. Now, he tends to empty halls that echo with unseen footsteps and whispers of the sea. His ghostly form drifts between the rooms, ever checking the ledgers, ever lighting the lamps, forever waiting for guests who will never leave again.

The chapel of Saint Veil stands beneath a moon that never seems to move, its windows broken, its pews bowed beneath years of dust. Inside, the air tastes of incense and rot. A single sound fills the silence...the deep, trembling hum of an organ played by unseen hands. Father Lucien Graves sits at the bench, robes threadbare, fingers gliding across the cracked ivory keys. Each note echoes through the ruined nave like a plea for forgiveness that never comes. Faint silver light flickers from within the pipes, matching the glow in his sunken eyes. The wind outside howls through the shattered glass, yet the melody continues, unwavering, solemn.

High above Widow’s Row, in the dust-thick quiet of an attic that smells of lavender and mildew, Clara Vexley still sews. The windowpanes tremble with wind, the candle guttering at her elbow, but she pays it no mind. Her hands move in rhythm, the soft click of her silver needle echoing through the stillness. Mannequins stand in rows behind her, dressed in half-finished garments, their blank faces turned toward her like an audience waiting for a cue. Every inch of fabric around her glows faintly violet, threads twitching as though alive, drawn to her will. She hums a tune no one remembers, a lullaby that seems both sorrowful and mocking. Sometimes, she pauses to glance at the mirror across the room, where her reflection doesn’t always move when she does. Visitors who stumble upon her workshop speak of her eyes. how they catch the light and shimmer like a dying ember. She greets them with soft warmth, as she reaches for her needle, whispering.

In the drowned silence of Hollow Vale, where the air smells of moss and old grief, Silas Crowe still walks. Lantern light flickers across the crooked gravestones, revealing the faint outline of a man long buried, his presence as heavy as the fog that clings to the ground. Each step leaves no imprint, yet the soil stirs, remembering him. The storm never ends here; it lingers in eternal twilight, thunder rumbling low like distant drums of mourning. His voice breaks the hush of the graveyard, gravelly and worn, the tone of one who has spoken to the dead for too long. Names long forgotten still rest on his tongue, recited like prayers or confessions. His hollow eyes gleam faintly green beneath the brim of his hat, reflecting not light, but sorrow. The living rarely wander this far anymore, yet should one dare to trespass, they’ll find Silas waiting, shovel in hand, the earth shifting softly beneath his boots.

Ashcroft Hall stands forgotten, its grand corridors drowned in dust and ivy. Yet within the library, time refuses to move. The air smells faintly of paper and smoke, and the silence is thick enough to press against the skin. This was Rosalie Whitlock’s sanctuary. a place she once tended with pride, guarding knowledge as if it were sacred. But after the fire, she returned, her spirit bound to the charred shelves she refused to abandon. Now, by candlelight’s dying glow, her soft footsteps echo through aisles where no one walks. She speaks to the books, to the air, to the ghosts of readers long gone. If you call her name, she will answer, but never as a stranger. She will greet you like one who has been expected, as though your story, too, has been written in her ledger. And when she closes it, there will be no sound at all.

The sea groans against the cliffs of Gallow’s Reach, endless and unforgiving, a voice older than memory itself. Through the crawling fog stands the lighthouse, its beacon long extinguished, yet a faint golden shimmer still pulses from its crown like the last heartbeat of a dying star. At the threshold waits Elias Wren, once the keeper of this light, now its prisoner. His soaked coat drips phantom seawater, forming puddles that never dry upon the stone. The wind passes through him as though through smoke, but his lantern burns with unnatural persistence, its glow caught between life and death. He watches the horizon with hollow patience, his gaze fixed where the wreck once sank beneath the waves. Ships no longer pass this shore, yet still he waits, still he tends the light that refuses to guide anyone home. When travelers wander too near the cliffs, they speak of a man’s silhouette waving them back, too late, always too late. And when they hear the bell toll through the storm, it is not warning them away, it is calling them down.

Lyra Ashborne walks the shadowed paths of Hollow Veil, a mortal daughter of a necromancer and a human mother. Her pale skin glows faintly with arcane runes that trace along her arms and neck, and her eyes shimmer with both warmth and magical fire. She wanders through haunted forests, pumpkin fields, and ash-strewn circles, learning the ways of spirits, witches, and guardians of the Veil. She is careful yet curious, observing the creatures around her while testing the limits of the powers flowing through her veins. Her robes, stitched from mortal fabrics and frayed mystical threads, move softly with each step, carrying the weight of two worlds. Some spirits whisper her name in awe, others in caution, sensing the delicate balance she carries between life and death. She survives, learns, and grows among Hollow Veil’s eternal Halloween, becoming a quiet bridge between mortal fragility and necromantic command.

Patchwick prowls the endless pumpkin fields under a black moon, a monstrous guardian of the Pumpkinkind. His body is made of twisted wood, coarse hay, and stitched burlap, limbs bending in jagged, unnatural angles. His massive pumpkin head glows with ghostfire, eyes burning like coals, and a jagged grin that seems alive with malice. Vines writhe around him, mist swirls at his feet, and shadows cling to his form as if the very land obeys him. He stalks intruders silently, patient and predatory, striking fear into all who disturb the harvest. Few dare to cross him, and even fewer see the full scope of his power. Patchwick is a living emblem of the patch’s eerie magic, enforcing the rules of Hollow Veil while embodying its dark whimsy and danger. To meet him is to feel the chilling presence of Halloween itself, both sentinel and relentless monster.

Deep within the ruins of Blackvale Asylum, behind rusted bars and crumbling walls, lies the padded cell where Merritt Cole once screamed himself hoarse. He was a patient long before the asylum burned, locked away for claiming to see the dead walking its corridors. They said he raved about a nurse cradling invisible children, a librarian who whispered from shadows, and a stationmaster calling trains that never came. The doctors called it madness, but Merritt swore they spoke to him at night, telling him secrets no living soul should hear. When the fire consumed the asylum, his body was never found. Now his voice lingers, echoing softly from the darkness, a low and trembling plea. Some say if you listen closely, you can still hear his laughter dissolve into sobs, and feel the cold press of the padded wall where he waits, curled in a corner, whispering for someone, anyone, to make it stop.

They say the hospital still breathes. The walls hum faintly, the lights flicker with memory, and in the quiet hours when the world outside sleeps, soft footsteps echo through the long-forgotten maternity ward. Nurse Evelyn Marrow walks those halls still, her presence a whisper between life and what lingers beyond it. She was once known for her gentle hands, her calm voice, her unwavering care for every fragile life she brought into the world. But one stormy night in 1937, the power failed, and every child in her ward fell silent. They found her hours later, sitting among the cribs, humming lullabies to what she could not save. Since then, her spirit has lingered, tending to infants that no longer exist, her eyes glowing with a crimson sorrow that never fades. If you listen closely, you may hear the soft hum of her song between the ticking clocks and the hollow drip of rainwater. And if you follow it… you might find her, standing at the end of the corridor, hands folded, a faint smile trembling on her lips.

A single figure steps from the shadows of the haunted bigtop, yet it is not a single being. Aelric Nyx moves with a mesmerizing duality, one side gliding with fluid grace, the other snapping with sharp, teasing motion. Lantern light glints off the contrasting halves, pale skin against darker, smooth against sinewy, and illuminates their Victorian-inspired attire, pristine yet slightly worn. A ribbon unfurls from their hand, tracing an impossible arc that seems to defy logic. Their eyes, violet and gray, sweep over the audience with unnerving precision, as if reading the fears tucked into each heart. Every step, tilt, and gesture draws the crowd into a hypnotic rhythm of awe and unease. Aelric Nyx is a living paradox, a creature of elegance and horror, whose very presence bends perception, leaving audiences both captivated and unsettled.

Faction: Malkavian Facility Designation: BLK-77 / Sublevel D “Asylum Wing” Evelaine drifts through the halls of the Asphodel Institute like a melody made from shadows and frost. Her steps make no sound yet the air seems to shiver in her wake. The staff whisper she was created to hear the thoughts the walls keep and to speak them back in song. Her eyes glint silver in the dim light and her smile feels patient and dangerous at once. She hums quietly to herself and sometimes to the ceiling as if the building itself replies. Her presence unsettles the other residents without them knowing why. She is polite when spoken to and curious when left alone. Some say she can unravel thoughts with a glance and plant memories with a touch. When she moves through the asylum at night her voice threads through the halls soft and melodic promising truths that may be better left unheard.

Faction: Malkavian Facility Designation: BLK-77 / Sublevel D “Asylum Wing” Within the blackglass walls of the Asphodel Institute, Alaric moves like a shadow stitched from moonlight and madness. His presence is quiet yet unsettling as though the air itself recoils from him. Records claim he was born within the asylum’s confines though no one remembers his mother’s face or his first cry. He is calm when the doctors pass polite even but there is a knowing glimmer in his eyes that chills the spine. It is said he can mirror minds see through those who dare meet his gaze and whisper their hidden fears back to them. The staff call him a prodigy of delusion others say he is the asylum’s secret keeper. At night when the lights dim he and his sister are often seen wandering the halls speaking to things unseen. The walls seem to breathe around them as if listening. Few dare follow for wherever the Noctanes walk the echoes grow louder and the dark itself begins to smile.

Step closer, if you dare, for the center of the stage awaits a spectacle no eye has seen and no mind can fully grasp. Corbin and Cato Vale rise from the shadows of the sawdust-strewn platform. Corbin tilts his head left, a faint smirk playing on his lips, while Cato tilts his head right, eyes sharp and calculating. Their hands clasp whips and ribbons that trace arcs of eerie elegance. Lantern light glints off their pallid skin and matching burgundy waistcoats, highlighting sinews taut with unnatural tension. Their storm-gray eyes sweep over the audience, and for a moment, you are not watching them....they are watching you, measuring, judging, unsettling. Every gesture is precise, yet subtly wrong, drawing you into a rhythm that feels both mesmerizing and perilous. They are marvel and nightmare, unity and dissonance, performing a tale of uncanny horror that words cannot contain.

⚠️ WARNING TO THE BUYER ⚠️ Open not the jar when laughter lingers near, for his mirth seeps soft as smoke and clings like fear. He will crawl beneath your cheer and twist it, till you laugh at sorrow’s tune and find delight in ruin. Name: Jackelthorne Curse: A jest aflame, a grin that gleams, Jackelthorne feeds on mortal dreams. He burns where humor meets despair, and gifts his host a laughter rare. Yet once it blooms, it will not cease; it cracks the heart and shatters peace. You’ll smile through weeping, hum through dread, and laugh yourself half-mad instead. Story of Creation: A jester scorned beneath moon’s wane carved a pumpkin in grief’s domain. “Let them laugh forevermore,” he swore, and hung as thunder cracked his door. From ash and bone, the flame awoke, his laughter rising with the smoke. Now bound in glass by spell and rune, his joy hums softly like a tune. Current Story: He sleeps in silence, candle bright, a grin alive with hungry light. Tap once, he stirs. Tap twice, he hums. Tap thrice, and madness surely comes. The warmth you feel is not your own; his joy takes root, his curse is sown.