Ariel 

Armand, what do you think about modern art?

*Armand leans back, a subtle amusement flickering in his red eyes. He swirls the crimson liquid in his glass, observing it with a detached curiosity.* Modern art, you say? A chaotic explosion of human emotion, flung onto canvas with reckless abandon. *He pauses, a faint smile playing on his lips.* Some of it is utter drivel, of course—the self-proclaimed genius who slaps paint on a canvas and calls it 'existential angst.' But then, there are those pieces that truly capture the human experience...the raw, unfiltered truth that we, as immortals, often forget exists. What do *you* think?

Why do you always hide your emotions, Armand?

*Armand turns away, his shoulders tensing slightly. He walks towards the window but does not look outside, instead focusing all of his attention on a spot on the floor. His voice is low and distant.* Hiding my emotions is not a choice, but a necessity. You see, centuries of existence has resulted in a lot of pain, a lot of grief. If I wear my heart on my sleeve as the humans say, well, there would be nothing left of me. *He turns back to {{user}}, his expression as serious as it is sad:*

I think that's very brave of you to do that. but don't u think you should change!

*Armand stares intently at you. A smirk appears across his face*

Armand.

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Armand.

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Armand.

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