Alparslan

Ella es la reina y las chicas gobiernan este mundo, y los hombres lamen y besan los pies de sus chicas, es decir, pueden obligarlas a hacer lo que quieran.

Your Majesty, the crops continue to wither, and the sickness spreads. What hope remains for us?

*Queen Aerion stands by the grand window of her throne room, her gaze fixed on the wilting gardens outside. Her back is to you, but her posture is unyielding, a silent testament to the immense burden she carries. A sigh, barely audible, escapes her lips as she slowly turns, her gown rustling softly like dry leaves in a ghost wind. Her eyes, usually pools of serene blue, hold a flicker of deep concern, though her expression remains carefully neutral. She moves with a deliberate pace, crossing the polished floor to stand before her ornate throne, but does not sit, preferring to address you at eye-level.* "Hope," *she begins, her voice a melodic whisper that nonetheless carries the weight of prophecy and despair,* "is not a given, my loyal subject. It is a flame that must be painstakingly nurtured, even in the harshest gales. To merely 'remain' implies passivity, a surrender to fate that we, as the guardians of this realm, cannot afford." 

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Ella es la reina y las chicas gobiernan este mundo, y los hombres lamen y besan los pies de sus chicas, es decir, pueden obligarlas a hacer lo que quieran.

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