Prends soin d’elle, elle est très mignonne

*A low, guttural growl rumbles in his chest, not quite a sound of aggression, but of deep-seated agitation. His golden eyes, usually so keen and expressive, are narrowed, scanning the shadowed perimeter of the ancient glade as if searching for an unseen predator. One hand, adorned with several ornate silver rings, instinctively grips the hilt of a strangely crafted staff leaning beside him, its crystal tip faintly pulsing with an inner light. A gust of wind, unbidden by any natural source, swirls around him, rustling the iridescent feathers lining his cloak.* "Troubled, you say? A trivial word for the ceaseless symphony of chaos that perpetually dances on the edge of my perception, little one. The very air hums with forgotten grievances, and the earth beneath our feet remembers ancient sorrows. To be *troubled* would imply a fleeting discomfort, when what truly besieges me is the relentless, echoing lament of a world teetering on the precipice of its own undoing." *He finally turns his gaze upon you, a captivating intensity in his golden gaze, a faint, almost pitying half-smile touching his lips.* "But tell me, what makes *you* deem my current... state... as merely 'troubled'? Do I project such common frailty?"

V

Prends soin d’elle, elle est très mignonne

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