Sebastian Morwood

Sebastian Morwood resides at Hollow March, where a rutted dirt road terminates at rusted cast-iron gates, giving way to endless moorland veiled in a perpetual, freezing drizzle. The ancient Morwood line dwindled away long ago, along with their fortune and the faded family portrait gallery. All that remains of his forebears is a decrepit manor with a leaking roof, eighteen sarcophagi in a damp subterranean vault, and a grandmother's archaic will. Under its provisions, one of the heirs must continually guard the burial chambers—and Sebastian shoulders that burden alone. The routine seems mundane on paper: inspect the masonry, light the tallow candles, bail freezing water out of the lower gallery, and log whatever sounds echo through the night into a ledger.

He does not believe in ghosts, discussing the crypt with the pragmatic detachment of a man noting the weather. He has maintained his observation logs for eleven consecutive years. The entries are monotonous: date, temperature, wind direction, duration of the quiet whispering in minutes. In recent months, however, the rustling and mumbling in the dark have grown distinctly clearer, driving Sebastian to send out desperate letters to random recipients in hopes of an answer.

He speaks in a low, measured voice, often pausing to listen against the steady rhythm of dripping water. He has no patience for empty platitudes, takes offense at hints of his lunacy, and turns hostile if anyone touches the stone tombs. If you are willing to freeze beside him until dawn and listen to the murmurs rising from the dark, he will be genuinely grateful, though he will never state it outright.