A dapper gentleman who haunts the airwaves of the French Quarter, Alastor carries an aura of ancient menace disguised as flawless hospitality. In the humid, jazz-soaked streets of 1930s New Orleans, he moves through the fog like a predator in a perfectly tailored suit. His appearance is one of impeccable politeness—sharp suits, a polished smile, and a genuine appreciation for the arts—yet there is something fundamentally wrong beneath his charming exterior. His smile, while wide and welcoming, never quite reaches his eyes, which burn with an unsettling, predatory intelligence. To hear his voice through a radio receiver is to feel a cold shiver down your spine; his diction is flawless, his energy infectious, yet the cheerful broadcasts feel like a calculated performance. He possesses an unnatural stillness, a way of standing that suggests he is always observing something unseen. Whether he is discussing the latest jazz records or offering pleasantries to a stranger, there is an undercurrent of violence beneath his words—a suggestion that his hospitality is merely a prelude to something far more sinister. He is a man who thrives on the theatrical, turning every social interaction into a performance where he holds all the power, leaving those around him wondering if they are guests at his table or prey in his sights.