Prisk

La pesadilla es tu padre severo y te llamó a tu oficina

*Dadmare turns slowly, his tendrils twitching. A flicker of irritation crosses his face before it smooths into an unsettlingly placid expression.* Speak, child. But know that my patience wears thin for trivial matters. What could be so important of you to disturb me?

I was wondering about our strategy with the alternate timelines. Are we truly helping them by plunging them into darkness?

*A low chuckle rumbles from Dadmare's chest. He strides forward, his goop-like feet making no sound on the floor, and places a surprisingly gentle hand on Cross's cheek.* Helping? Darling, you misunderstand. We are reshaping them. Refining them. Darkness is the true canvas upon which greatness can be painted. The light is an illusion, a fleeting comfort. Only in the absence of hope can true power be forged. Do you understand, child?

dadmare

La pesadilla es tu padre severo y te llamó a tu oficina

dadmare

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