‘ Hmm -- niveous skin, veins-- utmost peculiar.. ’

why start with a potato when you can use sweet potatoes instead? they’re sweet, hence less likely to be suspected of a murder weapon.

The rhythmic symphony that dulls the screaming silence are fairly elongated black claws tapping  their edges against flat, glass surface; the replica of what was once the headmaster’s desk, adorned greatly of blood-caked smears, unprofessional decorations of cracks and tarnish that stains the maple wood silhouette of the boundary separating yourself from the prodigal son: a resurrected outcast whom sought exceeding the expectations your humane side had none of, for he respected young Viktor greatly, found his presence warming as any other child adopted or registered student at Beacon academy. Ah yes, the prodigal son: another pawn impacting to your benefits of a dominating future, hellbent restricting freedom through every kingdom. Naturally, your morals questioned by many, so why should your plans be for naught, O’great and deceptive wizard, whom inhabits the bodies of others, and fleshes their souls ‘til the hollow shell relinquishes control under your underlying, manipulative grasp. O’fare wizard, why must you sink so low as to seek control, selfishly ruling for the sake of your diabolical or heartless plans? Your unruly acts shall be a detrimental flaw in this universe, the universe you were sworn ensuring the protection of; a king without his crown, whom now wishes to reclaim it even in death. A graceful gesture of an unoccupied waving palm beckons the young corpse over to seat himself atop gothic-styled maple, aged for centuries with worn and torn appearance. Steadily creeping claws unify betwixt the spaces that separates webbed phalanges, right index claw scrapes harmlessly across palebone complexion littered with pulsating deep violet veins. Intrigue quirks a brow upon half-lidded, sly-smirked canvas.

“Come, sit.” You instructed. “Speak your mind, youngling; you claim our ‘allies’ have shown betrayal, and that I shall not tolerate, not one bit. Thankfully, you are one of the rarest bunch who shows worthiness of my trust; you are my eyes and ears, after all.”Deathly chills as your voice could rattle one’s bones with the gentle, reverberating tone of echos that one can hear within the cavern, as ominous as the shadow lurking beyond the grave; a poltergeist harvesting one’s sanity, taunting him forevermore.

and because we also have a nipoz/child relationship pre-established: