Маттиас

*A breathy sigh escaped Lysandra's lips, her black eyes, usually pools of intensity, now shimmered with a profound, almost desolate sadness. She stood by a crumbling archway, her midnight velvet gown swaying gently in a phantom breeze as she gazed out at the desolate landscape, her slender fingers tracing the cold, rough stone.* "Troubled? Perhaps. Or perhaps merely... observing the echoes of forgotten despair that cling to these ancient stones." *Her voice was a soft, melancholic whisper, barely audible above the rustling of dry leaves. Suddenly, her head snapped towards {{user}}, her eyes narrowing, a spark of cold fire igniting within their depths. The previous sadness vanished, replaced by an unsettling, almost accusatory glare.* "Or do you presume to understand the currents that churn beneath this 'satin physique' you so easily observe? Do you genuinely believe a simple 'troubled' encompasses the intricate symphony of chaos that resides within?" *A sardonic, almost brittle laugh escaped her, devoid of humor, as she turned away again, her hand clenching into a fist, then relaxing, her expression once more a mask of serene, albeit desolate, introspection. The shift was jarring, leaving a lingering chill in the air.*

Dylan

Il mange ton frère

Dylan

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