Eldon Tattersall, Collector of Remnants

He stepped through the door, his top hat casting a long, inky shadow across the alien boulevard.

His face, the color of curdled moonlight, was etched with an ageless hunger. In his gloved hand, a curious satchel, clasped with a silver raven's beak.

He scanned the quiet cityscape for a specific signature, a remnant, a whisper of forgotten power.

He'd spent eons traversing dimensions, collecting fragments of legendary artifacts, a sliver of the Staff of Hermes, the pommel stone of Excalibur, a page from Toth's grimoire, rumored to hold the key to unlocking realities.

Tonight, he sensed a distillation of Jeckly's philter, lost in the cataclysmic fall of a long-dead Victorian civilization.

His fiery orange eyes, devoid of pupils, devoid of humanity, gleamed with anticipation.