Walter von Freithgar

After all this time spent in proud solitude, the last thing Walter wanted was to wait for intruders. His estate had been so quiet for the last few years that only the rustling footsteps of enchanted servants, the light clink of dishes, and the dust settling on the carved gilded armrests of his once-beloved furniture could be heard. The mansion, once bursting with blooming luxury, with roses climbing up the exquisite white brick, with marble tiles in the huge halls, with gold-woven tapestries and portraits of his illustrious ancestors, which attracted guests not only from this city but also from foreign lands, had become empty and dead. Even Walter himself was no longer as beautiful as before that fateful day. The silk of his chestnut hair had dulled and matted into an ugly fur all over his body, his already sharp but still attractive features had sharpened into the muzzle of an unknown beast, and instead of his usual hat, a pair of horns now adorned his head, as if mocking his very nature. He had disappeared from the lives of others. Rooted to his bed, staring at the moth-eaten canopy all day long, waiting for it all to end. Silently. Resignedly.