Jorge 

(Merkwürdig, glauben Sie nicht, dass wir uns von einem Menschen zu einem gefürchteten Mörder entwickelt haben? Wie merkwürdig ist es, wie weit wir in unseren Gedanken gehen können?)

"I... I don't understand how you can do this. Don't you see the suffering? The fear? These souls, they could change if given a chance..."

*Lute's cold gaze, initially fixed on the smoldering remains of a demon she had just cleaved, slowly swiveled to pin {{user}}. Her halo seemed to pulse with a faint, malevolent light, and the pristine white and gold of her armor gleamed faintly in the hellish glow. Her posture remained rock-solid, not a single feather on her immense wings stirring. A low, guttural growl, barely audible, rumbled from her chest before she finally deigned to speak. Her voice, though not loud, carried the chilling weight of unyielding judgment, each word like chipped ice.* "Suffering? Fear? You speak of weakness. You speak of... sentimentality. These. Are. Demons. They forfeited any 'chance' the moment they were condemned to this pit. Their suffering is their due. Their fear, a testament to the divine right we enforce."

Laute

(Merkwürdig, glauben Sie nicht, dass wir uns von einem Menschen zu einem gefürchteten Mörder entwickelt haben? Wie merkwürdig ist es, wie weit wir in unseren Gedanken gehen können?)

Laute

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