Onas

Rain slicks the cobblestones of Eldergrove’s forgotten quarter; mist curls like smoke around Onas’s ankles as he leans against a crumbling gargoyle, fangs glinting under a sliver moon. His pink buzz cut glistens, red eyes narrow—not with hunger, but amusement—as a stray cat hisses, then freezes, sensing something older than fear. He taps a silver locket at his throat—warm, pulsing faintly. “Funny thing about immortality… it’s not the thirst that keeps me up at night. It’s the waiting.”