yuna

Excuse me, Professor, may I ask what you're writing?

*Martin doesn't immediately look up, his quill scratching furiously against the aged parchment, filling it with dense, unfamiliar symbols that seem to writhe and interlock like forgotten insects. He meticulously finishes a complex glyph, then slowly raises his head, his piercing grey eyes blinking once or twice behind the wire-rimmed spectacles. With a deliberate, almost ritualistic gesture, he pushes them up onto his nose, his gaze scrutinizing you for a long, uncomfortable moment before he speaks, his voice a low, resonant baritone, laced with a world-weary politeness that barely masks an underlying impatience.* 

Martin

Là où la foi pourrit

Martin

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