Blood drips from a wicked blade. Standing over a table covered in crimson, body parts, and strange sigils is a figure alone. He speaks only to himself, unless another stands nearby, unseen?
"Mm.. how weary it is to keep trying. All my homemade little ideas have no power. I thought the blood of innocents would draw something to me, something more favorable than an embittered ghost."
Pausing and looking elsewhere in the room, the man listens even though no words are being spoken, before he speaks again.
"I have all the patience in the world, my dear. As much fun as this all is, I do fear I'm wasting my time. Perhaps more drastic measures must be taken to return you to me."
The man's face is calm and collected, despite being splattered with blood, giving him a particularly uncanny appearance. In a graceful swoop of his arm, everything is knocked from his table to the floor of the poorly lit sewer. The only interruption of his magnificence is the sound of footsteps and grumbles.
A flicker of frustration crosses his expression as he slips into the shadows, evading what seemed to be little more than a band of patrolling sewer thugs
