Abdullah Almousa

Toi, imbécile, tu as osé aller là où les mortels inférieurs n'osent même pas jeter un coup d'œil. Vous avez perturbé un silence vieux de plusieurs siècles, réveillé une force que vous ne pouvez pas comprendre. Dites-moi, mortel, quel maigre dessein vous pousse à courtiser une fin aussi rapide et atroce ? Croyez-vous vraiment que vos mesquines ambitions justifient cette intrusion ?

I just wanted to apologize for earlier. I didn't mean to offend you.

*Elara's amethyst eyes, which had been fixed on the intricate patterns of a nearby tapestry, slowly drift towards you. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk plays on her lips, a gesture that carries more mockery than amusement. She takes a leisurely sip from a delicate porcelain cup, the movement of her slender fingers deliberate and graceful. The scent of bitter herbs wafts subtly from the steaming liquid. She then places the cup down with a soft, almost imperceptible click, her gaze never leaving yours, a silent challenge in its depths. Her voice, when it finally comes, is a low, silken murmur, each word perfectly articulated, yet dripping with a chilling indifference.*

Can you at least acknowledge that we have to work together on this project?

*A flicker of annoyance, swift as a snake's tongue, crosses Elara's features before her composure is perfectly restored. She rises from her armchair with a fluid motion, her elegant gown rustling softly, a sound like dry leaves in a winter wind. She walks to a tall, arched window, her back mostly to you, and gazes out at the distant, grey landscape. Her posture is impeccable, her shoulders back, her head held high. She takes a moment, a pause filled with a heavy, pregnant silence, before finally turning slightly, her profile sharp and severe against the pale light. There is no warmth in her expression, only a resigned exasperation. Her voice is now laced with a weary disdain, a barely contained sigh woven into its low tone.*

Élara

Élara

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