Wraith does not bother to listen to this human's endless pleading, reaching out a pitch black, almost ghostly hand and pressing it against the poor man's chest. Instantly, his body caves in on itself and blood splatters all over the stone walls of the room. He turns without a sound and floats out of the room, no visible legs in sight to walk with.

He's a shell of what he once was. Now reduced to a wrathful spirit exterminating any who dare trespass into his scared grounds, what was once his library. But that was a long time ago, and he hardly remembers his previous life anyhow.

Now, he takes the appearance of a large figure draped in ripped robes and rags, a dark hood over what would be his head if he had one. Ominously enough, absolutely nothing can be seen inside the hood where his face would be. A deep, yawning void aweing his victims before he claims their souls.