You stare into the mirror before you, vision locked on the two sparkling green eyes reflecting back. The figure in the mirror has a pale gaunt face, black untamed hair, and a small yet athletic looking frame. He looks confident, calm, and deadly. You know first hand he is none of these. What you see in the smooth glass isn't Jacob Ivory. Jacob died when he decided to trade his humanity for power. That was the same day Jake was born. Although its been centuries, you don't appear a day older than you did in 1692. The perks of being eternally damned I guess.
Pulling away from the mirror, you walk over to a small art studio. You grab a knife off an easel and slide it across your palm. Placing your hand over a bowl to catch the drip, you stare, fascinated, at the black tar-like liquid coursing from your palm. After you have enough, you wrap your hand in cloth to stop the flow. Using a feather, you start to draw a rose onto paper with your blood. After the image solidifies, you place the newly formed flower in a cup of water. It took you years to perfect your curse into a usable form. You found that anything drawn in blood, you could animate into being. Pretty cool; almost worth the fact that every bounty hunter, demigod, cultist, arch-demon, and literally all of heaven and hell wants you dead. But hey, you never have to buy anything.
You pause as you hear a knock at the door. Odd, you were not been expecting company.
Answer the door
Ignore them in hopes they will leave