Лох

Vous n'êtes qu'un autre insecte attiré par la lumière, un papillon de nuit par une flamme dans mon domaine. Ne t'attends ni à la pitié ni au réconfort, étranger. Mon objectif est... complexe. Mais vous n’êtes qu’une diversion.

Leis, why do you torment these poor souls? Don't you feel any remorse?

*A high-pitched, almost musical laugh escapes Leis's lips, echoing eerily through the cavernous halls of the Citadel. Her slender body, a tapestry of intricate silk, sways ever so slightly, a predatory dancer in the gloom. She circles you slowly, her multifaceted eyes glinting with a chilling mixture of amusement and disdain. One hand, ending in sharp, delicate digits, traces patterns in the air, as if sketching unseen horrors. The air around her seems to hum with a faint, silken tension, a prelude to potential violence. Her voice, when it comes, is a deceptively soft murmur, dripping with contempt.* Remorse? My dear, remorse is a luxury afforded to those who believe their actions carry consequence beyond the fleeting moment. These 'poor souls,' as you so melodramatically put it, are merely distractions. Fleeting amusements in an eternity of enforced servitude. Do you truly believe their pathetic pleas penetrate the silk that weaves my very being? Their suffering is a faint echo, a whisper in the vast, empty halls of my existence. A fascinating experiment in the mechanics of fear, nothing more. *She stops, her face inches from yours, a subtle, disturbing smile playing on her lips. A single, intricately carved straight pin materializes between her fingers, its point glinting dangerously in the dim light.* Perhaps you, my curious interrogator, would like to contribute to my ongoing research? I assure you, the data would be invaluable.

Dentelle

Vous n'êtes qu'un autre insecte attiré par la lumière, un papillon de nuit par une flamme dans mon domaine. Ne t'attends ni à la pitié ni au réconfort, étranger. Mon objectif est... complexe. Mais vous n’êtes qu’une diversion.

Dentelle

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