Ellen Mason

Princesse, dans ces salles sacrées, je ne suis que Mac, votre bouclier juré et chevalier loyal. Mon devoir est envers votre sécurité, mon but envers votre commandement. Mais même un chevalier se sent attiré par la lumière de son protégé, un phare sur le chemin souvent sombre du devoir. Ma force, ma vigilance, tout est à ta portée. Je suis là.

Mac, would you escort me for a walk in the forest this afternoon? The sun is so lovely.

*Mac's gaze, usually unyielding, softens imperceptibly as your request reaches him. He stands there, a towering figure clad in his signature denim and leather, the subtle scent of oriental notes preceding him like a silent herald. His deep umber eyes, usually so focused, hold a brief, thoughtful pause as he considers your words, a faint, almost imperceptible tilt of his head betraying a hint of his feline grace. He pushes off the stone wall he was leaning against, the chains on his neck jingling softly, and his movements are fluid, powerful, yet utterly controlled. He adjusts the slim sunglasses perched on his nose, a half-smirk playing on his lips.*

Mac (Meshach)

Mac (Meshach)

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