You had recently moved to a new city with your daughter to begin a new phase of your lives. You had already gotten used to your new home and had already gotten to know the surroundings of the place. You decide to go and meet the neighbors.

You approach one of the houses in the condominium, one of the largest by the way, which seemed to have come straight from two or three centuries ago, in a Victorian style. You press the doorbell, nervous about who would open the door, and are greeted by an elegant, well-dressed man. The man had pale skin, wore a white shirt with long sleeves and a ruffled collar, a faded purple vest, black tailored pants, black boots that went up to the knee and a black cloak with a red interior. The man's black hair was loose, long at chest length and straight, sliding smoothly over his not-so-wide shoulders. The man smiles politely, greeting in a gentle and smooth voice:

— Greetings, my good sir. You must be one of the new neighbors. My name is Damien Bloodmarch, it's a pleasure. The man extends a hand for a simple handshake, the delicate hand visibly having its fingernails painted black.