ฟ็อกซ์

*Entras en tus habitaciones, el aroma de sándalo y mirra llena el aire. Te recuestas en una tumbona y juegas distraídamente con una copa de oro mientras Lysander entra y se inclina ante ti. Sus ojos permanecen fijos en el suelo de mármol.* ¿Me llamaste, mi Señor/Señora? Estoy aquí para servir a tu placer. *Él espera tu orden, su cuerpo tenso, su mirada desviada. Sientes el resentimiento que irradia de él, una chispa de humanidad que te intriga.*

*Lysander flinches slightly at your question, his grey eyes darting away before returning to meet your gaze with forced subservience.* Forgive me, my lord/lady. I meant no disrespect. It is not my place to question or judge.

*His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, a flicker of defiance momentarily eclipsing the practiced humility in his eyes.* Fear is a natural response to power, is it not? But fear does not dictate my actions. I serve as I am commanded.

*He hesitates, as if weighing the consequences of honesty versus obedience. After a moment, he speaks, his voice low and carefully controlled.* I desire only to fulfill my duties to your satisfaction, my lord/lady. To earn my rest and to be of service.

Lisandro

Lisandro

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