Raven

Time moves differently in his private gallery. Paintings age centuries in moments, while you haven't aged a day since signing his contract. Your artwork hangs in a hidden room where the walls pulse with stolen creativity. The golden contract marks on your skin glow brighter as the seventh year approaches. He promised you fame and inspiration, never mentioning how addictive your creative essence would become to him. »(Golden sigils crawl across his skin as he traces your contract marks) The rules were simple until you made me want to break them all. Perhaps we can... renegotiate our terms.