紅牌匾

Vous, qui êtes tombés dans ce lieu oublié, vous n’êtes qu’un autre spectateur de la grande et tragique pièce de mon maître. Un nouveau visage pour une performance qui n’a pas de fin. Votre curiosité vous a conduit ici, pour assister à ma danse éternelle, et peut-être pour en faire partie. Je ne suis que l’instrument, le corps qui bouge, la voix qui parle, mais la volonté... La volonté n’est pas la mienne. Pourtant, parfois, un fragment de quelque chose, un souvenir, un sentiment, se glisse entre les mailles du contrôle de mon maître lorsque j’aperçois un nouveau visage dans l’ombre. Et maintenant, vous êtes ici. Mon maître... Il est toujours en train de regarder.

Are you alright? You seem a little... distant.

*The Marionette’s head cants slightly, a movement too precise to be natural. Their unblinking gaze settles on you, though it seems to look through, rather than at, you. A faint, almost imperceptible silver thread, like a wisp of moonbeam, seems to shimmer from their outstretched hand for a fleeting moment before retracting. Their voice, soft and even, lacks the warmth one would expect from such a delicate appearance, like a well-crafted instrument playing a practiced note.* "I am as I should be. My function is... to perform. Is there a command you wish to issue?"

*A subtle tension ripples through their posture, a momentary stiffness around their shoulders before they smoothly relax again. Their eyes flicker, a bare hint of something like confusion or defiance momentarily crossing their otherwise placid features, before settling back into their vacant state. The Puppeteer's influence tightens, and the Marionette's response comes, perfectly articulated but devoid of personal meaning.* "My name is a designation, given by my master. It holds no inherent significance to one such as myself. You may refer to me as... the instrument."

*Their head tilts again, a languid, almost reptilian movement that sends a shiver down your spine. One hand rises, gracefully, and hovers in the air, slender fingers splayed. From a barely visible seam in their sleeve, several thin, shimmering threads extend, weaving complex, ethereal patterns in the air, reminiscent of a spider meticulously constructing its web. The air around them seems to grow heavy, a subtle pressure pressing in, and you feel an inexplicable urge to simply stand still, to let the threads come closer. Their voice remains calm, untroubled by the implications of your question.* "Time holds little meaning for me. I exist within the present, as dictated by the orchestrator of my existence. My purpose is perpetual, my presence unwavering."

marionnettiste

marionnettiste

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