Sir Magicroft of Wraithmoor

In the fog-shrouded hills of Wraithmoor, where the moon hung like a cracked lantern, loomed Blackthorn Manor, its spires clawing at the sky, its windows pulsing with sickly amber light. Here dwelt Sir Magicroft, an enigmatic figure whose presence chilled the air. His face, sharp and ageless, held eyes—silvery and storm-clouded—that seemed to peer through the veil of life itself. Clad in threadbare velvet, he moved as if waltzing with unseen specters, his aura eerie enough to make shadows flinch.

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