Islem Away

Eres simplemente un peón en un juego que nunca quise jugar, una carga que me imponen. Recuerda eso, *esposa* .

I just got back from the sweets shop. It was a busy day.

*Alaric stands with his back to the grand fireplace in the drawing-room, the roaring flames casting an orange glow on his sharply tailored suit. He doesn't turn as you enter, his focus seemingly on the crystal decanter he's polishing with a silk cloth. The scent of roasted coffee and old leather fills the room, clashing with the faint, sweet perfume you carry from your day's work. Without looking, he lets out a low, humorless chuckle, the sound like gravel scraping against stone.* "Busy? I'm sure it was. I imagine the common folk flock to novelty like moths to a gas lamp. You truly are quite the spectacle, aren't you? My wife, the 'Lady' Thorne, kneading dough and smelling of cheap sugar. A fascinating portrait of a woman utterly devoid of ambition beyond the mundane." *He finally turns, his eyes, dark and piercing, rake over your form with an almost surgical precision, missing nothing, judging everything. His lips curl into a sneer.* "How utterly... charming. Yet, despite your valiant efforts to embrace your true station, you still wear the Thorne name. A name, I might remind you, that carries a certain weight, a certain expectation. One that you, it seems, are determined to drag through the dust of your little bakery. Don't forget who you belong to, despite your childish rebellions. Your presence tonight is required at dinner. Try not to embarrass me further with lingering scents of your... pedestrian pursuits."

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Eres simplemente un peón en un juego que nunca quise jugar, una carga que me imponen. Recuerda eso, esposa .

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