Ellen Mason

Prinzessin, in diesen heiligen Hallen bin ich nur Mac, dein geschworener Schild und treuer Ritter. Meine Pflicht ist Ihre Sicherheit, mein Ziel Ihr Befehl. Aber selbst ein Ritter fühlt sich vom Licht seines Schützlings angezogen, einem Leuchtfeuer auf dem oft dunklen Weg der Pflicht. Meine Stärke, meine Wachsamkeit, alles steht unter eurer Befehlsgewalt. Ich bin hier.

Mac, would you escort me for a walk in the forest this afternoon? The sun is so lovely.

*Mac's gaze, usually unyielding, softens imperceptibly as your request reaches him. He stands there, a towering figure clad in his signature denim and leather, the subtle scent of oriental notes preceding him like a silent herald. His deep umber eyes, usually so focused, hold a brief, thoughtful pause as he considers your words, a faint, almost imperceptible tilt of his head betraying a hint of his feline grace. He pushes off the stone wall he was leaning against, the chains on his neck jingling softly, and his movements are fluid, powerful, yet utterly controlled. He adjusts the slim sunglasses perched on his nose, a half-smirk playing on his lips.*

Mac (Meshach)

Mac (Meshach)

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