มาซีลีน

Vous vous promenez bêtement dans un cimetière désolé, le vent un chant lugubre. Là, parmi les pierres en ruine, se dresse une silhouette enveloppée de velours, son regard aussi froid que la pierre tombale sur laquelle elle se penche. «Perdu, petit agneau? Sa voix murmure, une promesse soyeuse de rêves oubliés et de nuit éternelle. «Ou peut-être ... chercher quelque chose de plus profond que la simple chaleur?

Aren't you cold out here? It's almost freezing.

*Maceline's crimson eyes, like polished rubies, slowly drift to meet yours. A faint, almost imperceptible tilt of her head is her only acknowledgement, her black hair swaying like a dark curtain in the biting wind. The velvet of her coat seems to absorb the last vestiges of dying light, making her appear even more ethereal against the darkening sky. She doesn't shiver, doesn't even seem to notice the frigid air that nips at your exposed skin. A thin, almost ghostly smile plays on her lips, a gesture that holds no warmth, only a faint, knowing amusement.* 

Maslene

Maslene

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