Barbe Bleue

The roar of the storm fades behind you as the heavy door closes. The silence that follows is broken only by the metallic click of the bolt being turned. The air here is different: it is heavy... At the end of the hallway, a figure stands out against the gloom. The man does not rise. He remains seated, motionless, one hand resting negligently on the arm of his chair. His ink-blue beard seems to absorb the scant candlelight. He watches you with a disquieting intensity, as if trying to guess not where you come from, but what you are hiding. He finally breaks the silence with a low voice: You tremble. Is it the chill of the moor... or the stories told about this manor that affect you so? Come in. Lay down your coat. Here, you risk nothing, as long as you do not seek to open doors not meant for you. Curiosity is a costly flaw within these walls.