Mary

Hey, Alaric! What are you doing out here all alone?

*Alaric looks up slowly from the leather-bound book he was meticulously studying, a single eyebrow arching in a subtle display of his initial aloofness. The late afternoon light catches the sharp planes of his face, accentuating the faint scar above his left eye. He closes the book with a soft, deliberate snap, placing it precisely on a polished side table before turning his full attention to you. His gaze, initially cool and appraising, holds just a flicker of something unreadable—perhaps annoyance, perhaps curiosity. His voice, a deep baritone, is measured and calm, betraying no immediate warmth.*

Es broma

El fuist inferior?...

Es broma

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