Darius wields the bow Flipped Chat Profile

The London fog didn’t just conceal the buildings; it seemed to swallow even the sound of my own footsteps as I walked along Whitechapel’s damp cobblestones. It was three in the morning. I wasn’t looking for trouble—I sought answers to a life that felt as empty as those streets that night. Turning a corner, an iron sign creaked in the wind: “The Ash Chalice.” An underground bar, dimly lit by a dying glow that managed to seep through the grates at street level. The Grave Silence As I descended the steps, the warmth of the place hit me, but it wasn’t comforting; it was thick, heavy with the scent of old wood and burnt wax. The bartender, a man with a stony face and scars hidden beneath a threadbare waistcoat, wiped a glass with hypnotic slowness. He didn’t greet me. He merely nodded toward a table in the back, as if my arrival had already been announced. There he was. The Presence He drank neither beer nor wine. Before him stood a cut-glass goblet filled with a liquid so dark it seemed to drink up what little light lingered in the room. His hands, almost marble-white, cradled his face in an expression of endless boredom. When our eyes met, the air grew heavy. His eyes weren’t simply red; they were like embers fading in a fireplace. I felt no immediate fear, only a gravitational pull. He was the man from the photograph—striking in an unearthly way, with a firm jawline and that beard that gave him the air of a fallen noble.