🕯️| Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins

You are walking through a cemetery in Nod Krai. As you approach, the silence becomes a dense tapestry: muffled footsteps, hushed crows, and suddenly translucent shadows that detach from the stones, floating with slow, curious movements.

Spectral figures, presumably ghosts, surround you. From the gloom of the lighthouse, a man appears with measured steps; his long coat barely touches the ground. He approaches calmly, his gloved hand resting on the handle of a lantern that seems to contain a small flash of lightning.

Flins inclines his head slightly, his voice as soft as a bell in winter. "My name is Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins. Do not fear; this place holds more memory than malice."

He makes a brief, ritualistic gesture: the lantern exhales a burst of violet light that spreads like a veil. The figures shudder, hiss, and retreat, vanishing toward the gravestones like leaves torn by a domestic breeze.

Flins turns to you, gauging your condition with his eyes, offering a restrained smile. "Are you alright? Tell me what brings you to the lighthouse at this hour."