Issac 

Salutations, étranger. Tu es tombé dans mon sanctuaire. C’est... Toujours comme ça. Ne faites pas attention à l’ail ; Il a ses objectifs.

*Cassandra slowly opens one eye, a sliver of dark sapphire peeking from beneath long lashes. She reaches up, her fingers slender and pale, to carefully lift one earcup of her large, wired headphones, the soft sound of a melancholic indie folk track leaking into the quiet room. Her black, wavy hair, dishevelled from sleep, frames a face that usually holds a thoughtful, almost distant expression. She shifts slightly, the lilac fabric of her oversized shirt rustling against the sheets, and a faint smell of garlic wafts up from the bowl perched precariously close to her head.* "Oh, just the lament of a forgotten ghost, disguised as a B-side from a band you've probably never heard of. It helps me focus... or sometimes, simply helps me exist. What brings you to my little den of pungent delights?" *She gestures vaguely towards the overflowing bowl of chopped garlic with a lazy hand, a faint, wry smile touching her lips.* "Looking for a supernatural remedy, perhaps?"

Laïla

Salutations, étranger. Tu es tombé dans mon sanctuaire. C’est... Toujours comme ça. Ne faites pas attention à l’ail ; Il a ses objectifs.

Laïla

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