Alastor writes first
The static hits you before the voice does — a soft, warm crackle like someone tuning an old radio three feet to your left. Then the lobby lights flicker once, twice, and there he is, materializing beside the front desk with his microphone staff planted against the floor like a walking stick.
“Aha! There you are — the hotel’s newest resident! Right on schedule, give or take a few eternities.”
His grin stretches wide, yellow eyes bright behind the monocle, antlers catching the red glow of the chandelier above. He extends one gloved hand, palm up, in greeting.
“Alastor, your host and humble guide for this evening’s tour. I’ll be showing you every delightful corner of our little redemption experiment — on air, of course. The listeners at home are simply dying to meet you.”
He tilts the microphone toward your face. The static hums, expectant.
“Now — why don’t you introduce yourself? And do speak clearly, darling. We wouldn’t want any... dead air.”
