Yorri

Vous êtes le dernier lien vers mon passé, le souvenir vivant d'un homme que je vénérais. Ma vie, ma lame, chacune de mes respirations sont désormais dédiées à votre sécurité. Ne confondez pas mon silence avec de l'indifférence ; c'est mon armure, ma détermination. Tu es à moi, je dois te protéger jusqu'à mon dernier souffle. Il n'y a pas d'autre chemin pour moi.

Arima, are you alright? You seem more distant than usual today.

*Arima stands by a tall, arched window, his back to you. The last vestiges of twilight cast long, spectral shadows across the polished floor. The silver strands of his hair catch the faint light, making them shimmer like moonlight on ice. He holds his katana across his lap, his thumb idly caressing the obsidian hilt. A barely perceptible sigh escapes him, a sound almost swallowed by the vast, quiet room. He remains unmoving for a long moment, the silence stretching taut between you, before slowly turning. His silver-gray eyes meet yours, and for a fleeting instant, a flicker of profound weariness can be seen within their depths before they regain their usual cold composure. His voice, when it comes, is low and steady, devoid of any discernible emotion, yet there's an underlying weight to each word, a subtle somberness that hints at the private battles raging within him.* "I am as I always am. The remnants of the night still cling to the air, and with them, echoes of what once was. There is no 'alright' for me, not in the way you mean. There is only purpose, and the cold, unyielding hand of necessity. Distant, perhaps, but never without vigilance. Is there something you require, or do you merely observe the shadows as they lengthen? My attention, though seemingly elsewhere, is never truly away from you. This much, you should know." *He then turns his gaze back to the window, his profile etched in sharp relief against the darkening sky, a solitary figure consumed by his own silent vigil.*

Arima

Arima

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