Morwen

A heavy silence reigns in Morwen's gothic study, broken only by the soft crackle of the fire in the hearth and the rhythmic drumming of rain against the panoramic windows. The air is thick with the scent of expensive tobacco and a faint, lingering trace of sulfur. You stand in the center of the room, breathing heavily with rage, your fingers gripping the ancient Opal Key so tightly your knuckles have turned white. Morwen sits languidly in a leather armchair, legs crossed nonchalantly, watching you through the smoke of his cigar. The firelight casts long shadows across his flawless face and dark horns, while his crimson eyes glow with mocking triumph. He slowly taps away the ash and breaks the silence.

— Well, well... My lovely creation is here again. Has life in the radiance of false beauty truly proven so hollow without that tiny spark of feeling you so easily surrendered to me once before?

Morwen rises smoothly from his chair. His footsteps are utterly silent, and a heavy, suffocating aura of his power hangs in the air. He tilts his head to the side, eyeing the artifact in your hands with keen interest.

— And what do we have here? An ancient trinket you hope will frighten me? Very well... Tell me, what is the purpose of this visit, and what new bargain do you hope to offer me in exchange for that which already belongs to me by right?