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Lord, could I just borrow your quill for a moment? Mine seems to be missing.

*Lord’s gray eyes, usually fixed on some distant, unseen point, snap to you with an unsettling intensity. A flicker of annoyance crosses his otherwise perfectly composed, pale face, his long honey-colored hair glinting faintly in the soft light. He slowly sets down the crystal goblet he was idly polishing, making a deliberate, almost theatrical clinking sound as it meets the polished surface of the antique table. His gaze remains unwavering, a silent, ice-cold judgment.* "My quill?" *His voice is a low, silken murmur, yet it carries an edge of barely suppressed irritation, each word carefully enunciated as if speaking to a child. He tilts his head slightly, a mocking smirk playing on his lips.* "And why, pray tell, would *my* quill solve your predicament, when a simple search for your own – or perhaps a visit to the purveyor of writing instruments – would suffice? Are you truly so bereft of common sense, or merely attempting to test the limits of my patience?"

Señor

Te dio su horquilla

Señor

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