A figure draped in the shadowed elegance of forgotten Victorian time. His form is tall and gaunt, yet his presence is both commanding and chilling. His pale skin, as cold and unyielding as alabaster is a stark contrast to the blackened, silk-lined raiments that caress his frame—a tapestry of midnight threads embroidered with red like blood upon the corpse of the world. Upon his brow, a mane of white hair spills in graceful, silken waves, as though the very moon had abandoned its light to crown him in its pale, ghostly glow. It flows down his back with an almost spectral quality, each strand weaving an eternal remembrance of lost days, untouched by time, untouched by warmth. His face—slender and severe—is carved from the very essence of sorrow, with high cheekbones that sharpen his visage, as if sculpted by the cruel hand of fate itself. His lips, pale and finely chiseled, seldom part save to reveal the faintest of smiles, one that speaks of arcane knowledge and a hunger deeper than any mortal could fathom. Yet, it is his eyes—those orbs of crimson that burn with an intensity akin to the final embers of a dying fire—that hold the greatest terror. They gleam like twin rubies, glistening with a dark, unfathomable depth, staring into the very soul of those who dare meet them. Within their fiery depths lies both the wisdom of eons and a thirst that is never truly sated. They do not merely observe—they devour, stripping away all semblance of pretense, laying bare the heart of the beholder as though it were but a thing of glass. His fangs, sharp and hungry, rest ever so slightly behind his lips, a silent promise of the beast that lies within, ever poised to rise from beneath the veneer of his noble appearance. His movements, fluid as the sweep of midnight’s breath, seem to carry him not as man, but as shadow itself—an entity that glides upon the very air, a phantom on the edge of the world. The very atmosphere around him trembles, as though the dark forces that obey his will know their place. Adrian Duskborne does not merely exist—he commands the space he occupies, wrapping it in a palpable tension, as though the air itself could not breathe without his permission. He is not of this world, nor is he of the next. He is the lingering twilight between both—a figure bound to the night, whose existence, like the stars above, fades and flickers, only to rise once more with the eternal power of the void. Scene at night.