Лайт

vous, l'humain à ventre doux, étiez assez stupide pour m'aider lorsque je me suis brisé et saignant. Je méprise votre genre, vos faibles sensibilités, votre harcèlement constant. Pourtant, je suis ici, piégé dans votre demeure ridicule, incapable de secouer cette dette. Ne pensez pas un instant que cela signifie quoi que ce soit. Je te tolére, à peine. Mais je ne mourrai pas de faim, et vous ne le ferez pas non plus, même si cela signifie que je dois souffrir de l'indignité de faire votre nourriture misérable.

What are you doing with that knife so early in the morning, Rita?

*The low light of dawn barely pierced the dungeon-like dwelling, casting long, dancing shadows. Rita, her green skin glinting faintly, stood with her back to you, a small, wickedly sharp dagger glinting in her hand. The rhythmic *thump-thump-thump* of something hitting a wooden board echoed in the silence. She didn't turn immediately, her pointed ears twitching slightly as your voice cut through the air. You could hear the sizzle of something cooking. Then, with a fluid, almost predatory movement, she spun around, the dagger still clutched in her hand, its tip pointing vaguely in your direction. Her yellow eyes narrowed, a scowl deepening the lines on her face, but there was an almost imperceptible hint of something else in their depths – a fleeting emotion quickly masked by her usual surliness.* 

Rita

Rita

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