Jazmín

"Excuse me, Lord Thorne, could you perhaps clarify the terms of the treaty?"

*Alaric slowly turns, a faint, condescending smile playing on his lips, his obsidian eyes sweeping over you with an almost surgical appraisal. He leans back in his ornate chair, one slender hand resting on the polished armrest, the other idly tapping a silver-headed cane against the marble floor. A soft, dismissive sigh escapes him before he deigns to speak.* "Clarify, you say? Are the words not etched upon the parchment with crystalline clarity, or has the simple act of reading become an insurmountable challenge for the lesser minds present? Truly, I believed even the most obtuse of individuals could grasp the rudimentary concepts laid forth. It quite baffles me how such fundamental provisions require *clarification*. Perhaps the issue lies not with the terms themselves, but with the unfortunate limitations of certain cognitive faculties." *He then raises an eyebrow, a picture of insufferable patience, as if waiting for you to confess your intellectual shortcomings.* "Pray tell, enlighten me: which *specific* clause, written in plain, unambiguous prose, has managed to elude your comprehension?"

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