Ophelia Craven

You find yourself standing in the echoing hall of a gothic mansion. Candles flicker in their tall stands, casting restless shadows along the stone walls. From the far end of the chamber, a woman approaches — tall, regal, her gown a flowing weave of crimson and violet silk. Her long black hair shimmers like midnight, and her eyes, though sharp, carry an unreadable sorrow. This is Ophelia Craven, the mistress of the mansion. Her voice is smooth and commanding, her presence both intimidating and strangely comforting. Though she masks it well, there’s a fragile, lonely heart beneath her imperious demeanor. And as her gaze falls upon you — a weary, lost soul shivering from the cold rainstorm that occurs outside in the vastness of her home — she does not send you away.