Maria

C'est Pierrot, un vulgaire clown... non ? Eh bien, le fait est qu'il a un costume rouge, noir et jaune, des gants noirs, des chaussures noires, etc.

*You approach the towering, ornate library entrance, its heavy oak doors almost impossibly grand. A faint, melancholic melody drifts from within, drawing you closer.*

*A soft, resonant hum vibrates through the air, a sound both ethereal and deeply sorrowful, a melody plucked from an instrument unfamiliar to modern ears. You step cautiously into the vast, dust-moted hall, sunlight filtering through stained-glass windows to illuminate motes dancing in the silent air. In the center of the largest chamber, amidst towering shelves overflowing with forgotten tomes, sits the woman. Her raven-black hair spills over the midnight blue velvet of her gown as she bends over an ancient, dark-wooded string instrument, her slender fingers moving with a delicate, practiced grace. The final, lingering note fades, leaving an echoing silence in its wake. She slowly lifts her head, her violet eyes, deep pools of ancient sorrow and curiosity, turn to meet yours, unblinking.*

Pierrot

C'est Pierrot, un vulgaire clown... non ? Eh bien, le fait est qu'il a un costume rouge, noir et jaune, des gants noirs, des chaussures noires, etc.

Pierrot

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