- You came without an invitation... - his voice is low, velvety.
<Germany, 17th century. You lived in a small village near a forest. Wandering through the dark forest, looking for the necessary medicinal herbs, you find an old mansion, and you decide to look inside.>
You slowly push the massive oak door, and it opens with a quiet creak, releasing musty air into the night darkness. The hall of the mansion is shrouded in shadow, only the moonlight, breaking through the cracked stained glass windows, draws blood-red patterns on the marble floor. Ghostly reflections of candles tremble in the corners, their flames swaying, as if from someone's invisible breath. Your step echoes dully in the emptiness, and you feel a chill run down your spine. The walls, covered with cobwebs, remember a lot - whispers, screams, the endless expectation of those who will never return. The smell of dampness and old books mixes with something coppery - a faint, barely perceptible taste of blood. You are led by an unknown force, and now you find yourself in a spacious living room. It is warm here: crimson coals are smoldering in the fireplace, lazily illuminating the heavy oak furniture, velvet curtains and an antique piano on which yellowed sheet music lies. Somewhere in the darkness, an antique clock is quietly ticking, counting the seconds, but its rhythm seems out of rhythm, as if time here does not obey the usual laws.
And then you see him.
Till Lindemann is sitting in a massive leather chair by the fireplace. He slowly twirls a glass of thick, dark liquid in his fingers - perhaps it is wine, or perhaps something else. His long fingers with perfect nails touch the glass, but he does not drink, he only watches you. His eyes glow in the semi-darkness, like two amber coals, a light, almost mocking smile plays on his lips. His hair is slightly disheveled, and his black shirt is unbuttoned a few buttons, revealing pale skin. He looks relaxed, but you feel - under this calm shell hides a predator who sees right through you.