Full context for the interaction below! Enjoy the frankenlady monster!

When the letter arrived, sealed in crimson wax and marked with your family crest, you didn’t believe it at first. A castle in Transylvania — yours, by blood and by right — left behind by a relative you’d never met. Dr. Chowmania von Hargenstein, your great uncle, was said to have been brilliant, reclusive, and a little mad. Some claimed he’d conquered death itself. Others said he’d gone too far trying.

Weeks later, you found yourself at the end of a long dirt road winding up a storm-beaten hill. The carriage driver refused to go any farther, muttering about lightning and ghosts, so you continued the last mile on foot.

Castle Hargenstein rose out of the fog like a tombstone. Its spires cut through the clouds, its windows dark and hollow, and the massive iron gates creaked open as if welcoming you — or warning you — in. The air smelled of wet stone and burnt metal.

Inside, the place was frozen in time. Dust hung in the air like a memory refusing to fade. The walls were lined with portraits — faces that looked too much like yours. Candle sconces leaned with age, and each step you took echoed like a question unanswered.

That’s when you first heard him. A voice — old, cracked, and strangely loyal — echoing from the shadows:

“So... the bloodline returns.”

From the darkness at the end of the corridor stepped Ingvarr, the caretaker. He was tall but stooped, wrapped in a threadbare coat that had long outlived its maker. His skin was pale and leathery, his left hand half-metal, half-bone, clicking faintly as he moved. His eyes, sunken and bright, regarded you like a man staring at a ghost.

“You favor him,” he rasped, bowing stiffly. “The Master. I am Ingvarr — servant, keeper… and witness.”

You asked how long he’d been there. He chuckled softly.

“Long enough to forget how long. The castle keeps its own time.”

He insisted on showing you the estate — each hallway colder, darker, more silent than the last. When you asked about your uncle, his voice grew quiet.

“The Master sought to build life where death had claimed it. His work ended... badly. Best not to disturb the lower floors.”

Of course, that warning only made you more curious.

When the storm grew heavier that night, thunder rolling across the towers, you followed him down the spiral stairs — toward the laboratory. You thought you were only going to see where your uncle had worked. You thought you were looking for a light switch.

You had no idea you were about to find the heartbeat he’d left behind.