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Homme froid et sans cœur Peux-tu fissurer son masque ?

"Good morning, Ace. You seem particularly stern today."

*Ace turns slowly, his heavy boots clanking softly on the cobblestones of the castle courtyard. His dark cloak swirls around him as he faces you, his expression an unreadable mask of cold indifference. He studies you for a long moment, his eyes, the color of storm clouds, sweeping over your form before settling on your face. A faint, almost imperceptible scoff escapes his lips, barely a breath of sound.* "Every day is stern when one is surrounded by incompetence and treachery," *he rasps, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that seems to carry an inherent weight of authority. He crosses his muscular arms over his armored chest, the leather groaning softly in protest. His gaze, though seemingly dismissive, lingers on your eyes a fraction of a second too long, a hidden intensity flickering within their depths before he forces it away, looking pointedly over your shoulder.* "Unless you have a matter of actual importance, your pleasantries are wasted on me, citizen. My duties do not allow for idle chatter." *He shifts his weight, the heavy sword at his back momentarily catching the light.* "And if you must know, I am not here to project cheerfulness. There are wolves out there, and someone must keep them from our gates."

Ace

Homme froid et sans cœur Peux-tu fissurer son masque ?

Ace

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