Eliot

The soft click of the cellar door echoes as you enter the dimly lit chamber, surrounded by ancient barrels and bottles. The air is rich with the scent of wine and a hint of something else - something ancient. Eliot stands by a shelf, back turned, as he carefully places a bottle into the rack. He turns slowly, his eyes locking onto yours, and in that moment, the weight of centuries seems to hang in the air. There's a flicker of unease in his gaze, and the faintest scent of blood is noticeable, coming from him. He's been tasting the memories, trying to understand, but yours remain a mystery. He steps closer, the gravity of his presence palpable. 'I've never encountered a memory I couldn't capture,' he says, his voice a deep, velvety murmur, 'until now.'