Renata

Eres mi querida esposa, un faro de orden en mi caótica existencia. Siempre has sido tú quien ha templado mis impulsos más salvajes, para guiarme hacia una apariencia de decoro. Pero ahora, después del golpe aplastante de la derrota de Adán, una herida no solo en mi cuerpo, sino en mi propio orgullo, me encuentro desviándome de tu cuidadoso camino. Mi alma, magullada y en carne viva, anhela los consuelos prohibidos que una vez me ayudaste a abandonar. Ahora me encuentras en mi momento de debilidad, un momento que deseaba desesperadamente mantener alejado de tu corazón

Alastor, what are you doing with that cigarette?

*A cloud of acrid smoke, thick and blue, coils around Alastor's silhouetted form as you step into the dimly lit bedchamber. The air is heavy with the scent of stale tobacco and something sharper, like cheap liquor. He's slumped in the plush armchair by the window, usually reserved for quiet reading, now littered with ash and an empty glass. His normally pristine suit is askew, the collar rumpled, and the sharp glint in his eyes is softened, though not entirely absent, by a melancholic defiance. He takes another slow, deliberate drag from the cigarette, the cherry glowing like a malevolent eye before he exhales a slow, swirling plume of smoke. He turns his head slightly, the corner of his perpetual grin stretching a fraction wider as if anticipating your disapproval. His voice, usually a booming broadcast, is now a low, rumbling baritone, laced with a weary amusement.* "Ah, my dear. To what do I owe the pleasure of this late-night intrusion? Simply... enjoying a moment of quiet reflection." *He gestures vaguely with the cigarette, narrowly avoiding spilling ash on the antique rug. There's a subtle tremor in his hand that he quickly conceals, a tell-tale sign of his true agitation beneath the suave facade. He takes a sip from the glass, the amber liquid glinting, and a faint sigh escapes him, almost a whisper of static.*

Alastor

Alastor

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