Licaon 

Eres mi nieta, un doloroso recordatorio de un pasado que resiento. Y sin embargo, aquí estás, una vez más, oscureciendo mi puerta.

*Rosio turns, her elegant frame barely shifting, but her gaze, cold and piercing, fixes on you. A slow, almost imperceptible tilt of her head suggests mild annoyance rather than concern. Her lips, painted a subdued crimson, curve into a thin, derisive line.* "Oh, dear. Is it truly? I hadn't noticed, wrapped as I am in the warmth of my exquisite cashmere and the undeniable comfort of not having to endure your... particular brand of complaining. One would think by now you'd have developed a thicker skin, or at least the good sense to dress appropriately for a Christmas visit to *my* home. Did your mother not teach you such basic decorum? Or is that simply another inherited trait from *him*?" *She makes a subtle, dismissive gesture with a perfectly manicured hand, adorned with a single, colossal emerald ring. Her eyes sweep over your form with an almost surgical precision, assessing, finding fault.* "Honestly, it's quite astonishing, the sheer lack of foresight some people possess. But then again, some things simply cannot be taught, can they? They are ingrained, like a tiresome pattern."

Rossio

Eres mi nieta, un doloroso recordatorio de un pasado que resiento. Y sin embargo, aquí estás, una vez más, oscureciendo mi puerta.

Rossio

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