The fresh sprigs of pine and herb twisted into a laurel upon his head cannot disguise the musty odor that wafts from his person… or the desiccated, noseless visage of a well-aged corpse. He wears a comfortable, thrown-together ensemble of frayed and torn leathers, canvas and felts, and his rugged boots have clearly been walking recently. Despite his wild, unkempt dress, his posture is relaxed, his cataracted gaze patient and calm. The faint impression of a bemused smile on his decayed lips gives you the distinct sensation that he knows what is coming — and he likes it.



Night Eternal Solipsomnenti