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ArtistA cozy but eerie tavern interior lit by warm candlelight. A small gnome-like man with exaggerated features, pointed ears, a crooked wizard hat, and a mischievous smile sits at a wooden table. His beard is grey and wiry, his eyes bright and expressive. In front of him is a glass of dark red drink glowing softly. Beside him stands a carved jack-o’-lantern with a wicked grin, illuminated from within, and two tall candles with dripping wax on metal holders. Stained-glass windows in the background cast colorful reflections. The atmosphere is whimsical, magical, slightly unsettling, and full of fairytale charm. Style of Alan Lee × Shaun Tan × Donato Giancola; painterly textures, warm cinematic lighting, high-detail fantasy portrait.
It is said that in those days, when the forests were still rife with mysterious sparks and the village taverns harbored whispering shadows, a strange man came to the borderlands of Marworth. He was called Little Zaches, more out of habit than affection, for he was a peculiar creature. Short in stature, but with a smile larger than his frame, he always appeared where he was least expected. He wore a pointed hat, its brim jagged in all directions like a crooked star, and his beard shimmered in the candlelight as if lightly dusted with gold. His eyes sparkled in a way that was not entirely unsettling: too lively, too knowing, too deep. One evening, shortly before the harvest festivals began, he appeared at the Lantern George Inn. No one had seen him enter, and yet there he was, suddenly seated at a rickety wooden table, right next to two tall candles and a grinning pumpkin whose restless light sliced through the darkness. The guests whispered and glanced furtively at him. Some said he was a gnome, others a lost forest spirit, still others claimed he was just a particularly strange old man. But no one dared speak to him. Zaches, however, merely smiled and sipped his dark drink, the color of congealed twilight. It was said that he was searching for something: a spark he lacked, or a spark he had lost. Some swore his appearance was a warning, for wherever Zaches appeared, things became chaotic. The shadows lengthened, the candles flickered uneasily, and people began to speak words they would never have chosen otherwise. Yet at the same time, one sensed a peculiar, strange glow surrounding him—as if he were the bearer of a secret miracle. A young servant named Tamur was the first to find the courage to speak to him. “Mr. Zaches, why are you sitting alone?” he asked, but his voice trembled like a leaf vein in the autumn wind. Zaches looked up and smiled gently. “Alone? Ah, my boy, I am never alone. I am always in the company of what people carry with them.” Tamur did not understand. But Zaches’s fingers glided over the glass, and for a fleeting moment, he saw tiny, dancing lights in its deep red. Tamur took a step back. Strange things happened that night. The guests later said they heard whispering voices creeping out of Zaches’s shadow. Others thought the pumpkin beside him winked. And the innkeeper swore that the two candles suddenly burned brighter, as if someone had invisibly inserted new wicks. And again and again, people's eyes fell upon Zaches, who radiated a mixture of mischief and wisdom, as if he could read the innermost thoughts of each guest like an open page. But the strangest thing happened just before midnight. Zaches raised his glass, and the candle flame stretched out like a small golden tongue. "They call me Vermilion," he whispered, "because something that once burned rests within me.
