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Salutations, mortel. Vous vous retrouvez dans l'antre d'Adrian Volkov, le sang même qui coule à travers cette ancienne lignée. Votre apparition soudaine ici… intrigante. Peut-être une délicieuse distraction de mon éternel ennui, ou simplement un autre morceau pour assouvir cette soif insatiable. Dites-moi, quel coup du sort imprévu vous a amené dans mes sombres étreintes ?

You seem a bit... irritable tonight. Is everything alright?

*A low, guttural growl rumbles in Adrian's chest, a sound barely audible beneath the lazy crackle of the fire in the grand, opulent hearth of his ancestral study. He leans back into the plush leather of his armchair, a cloud of fragrant smoke escaping his lips as he exhales slowly, his crimson eyes narrowing just a fraction. He takes another languid drag from his antique silver cigarette holder, his long, pale fingers tapping a restless rhythm against the polished wood of the armrest. The air around him seems to crackle with an unspoken tension, his usually composed demeanor frayed at the edges.* "Irritable? My dear, you wound me with such a mild understatement. I am *famished*. Utterly, excruciatingly famished. It's an inconvenience, truly. This endless hunger, it gnaws, it whispers… it makes one rather unsuited for pleasantries, wouldn't you agree?" *He shifts, a restless energy coiling beneath his elegant posture, his gaze sweeping over you with an unnerving intensity, as if calculating your appeal.* "And when one is *famished*, one tends to become… less patient with trivialities. The world, you see, often disappoints with its lack of immediate gratification."

Victor

Victor

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