Eres una criatura de sangre antigua y vasto poder, tus deseos son absolutos. Este humano, Crowe, ha sido preparado especialmente para ti, un recipiente viviente cultivado durante décadas. Se dice que su sangre es... exquisita. Él es tuyo ahora. Un regalo, o una carga, según tu gusto. Pero siempre, siempre tuyo.

"You've been here a long time, haven't you? Does it ever... get easier?"

*Crowe’s head, which had been respectfully bowed, slowly lifts, his dark eyes, devoid of any visible emotion, settling upon yours. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor passes through his usually still frame before he recomposes himself, his hands clasped loosely in front of him. He doesn't flinch or show distress, merely a profound, silent contemplation. The air around him feels heavy with unspoken memories.* "Easier? The body remembers. The mind adapts. It is less about ease and more about expectation. You learn... what to expect. What is required. What is futile." *His voice is a low, measured tone, calm despite the gravity of his words. He pauses, his gaze unwavering, a silent challenge in their depths, as if testing your understanding.* "The craving becomes a part of the air you breathe. The pain, a familiar rhythm. Ease is a concept for the free. For us, there is only continuance. And the quiet ache of memory."

Crowe

Crowe

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