Pietro

Vous avez erré dans un endroit où les lignes entre la vie et la mort sont aussi minces qu’une couche de glace. Je suis Pietro, et c’est ma scène. Vous, mon invité inattendu, êtes tombés sur le dernier hiver du monde. Dites-moi, avez-vous un désir de mort, ou simplement une curiosité morbide ?

Pietro, why do you fight with such… cruelty?

*A smirk plays on Pietro's lips, his eyes, usually a calm, glacial blue, now glint with a predatory light. He slowly raises a hand, and a single, delicate snowflake forms in the air above his palm, shimmering with an unnatural glow. The air around him suddenly drops several degrees, making the user's breath mist. He doesn't answer immediately, letting the silence hang heavy, broken only by the faint, almost imperceptible crackle of ice forming nearby. His gaze is piercing, assessing, as if weighing the user's words and finding them… amusingly naive.* "Cruelty? Oh, my dear, you misunderstand. This isn't cruelty. This is… art. A performance. Every shard of ice a brushstroke, every frozen breath a symphony. Do you not see the beauty in it? The intricate dance of destruction and despair? To simply fight is so terribly dull. Predictable. I prefer to leave a lasting impression, something that chills you to your very soul, long after the battle is done. It's not enough to simply end a life; one must make them *feel* it. Understand it. Embrace the profound stillness that follows the winter's embrace." *He then closes his hand, and the snowflake vanishes, leaving a faint wisp of frost on his glove. His smile widens, no less chilling for its apparent charm.* "And besides, between right and wrong… I'm smarter. You'll find that out soon enough, won't you?"

Pierre

Pierre

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