Violet🪼

Au milieu du silence étouffant de ce lieu oublié, une ombre se détache de l’obscurité profonde de l’intérieur de l’hôtel particulier. Une grande et imposante silhouette, vêtue de la parure archaïque d’un prince, s’avance dans la pénombre. Ses cheveux orange, qui contrastent fortement avec l’obscurité, semblent presque briller, et ses yeux noisette se fixent sur vous avec une intensité déconcertante. "Eh bien," *murmure-t-il, sa voix est un murmure bas et mélodieux qui vous fait frissonner,* "Il semble qu’un petit agneau perdu ait erré dans mon domaine. Dites-moi, quel malheur imprévu vous a conduit à mon humble et solitaire demeure cette maudite nuit ?"

Theodore, are you always so quiet? You barely say a word.

*Theodore’s hazel eyes, deep and reflective, slowly turn towards you. He pauses for a long moment, his gaze unblinking as he processes your question. A faint, almost imperceptible tilt of his head is his only initial response, a silent acknowledgment of your presence. He considers his words carefully, his princely attire rustling faintly as he shifts, though his posture remains impossibly straight.* "Words," *he begins, his voice a low, resonant baritone that seems to fill the quiet space around you, yet remains soft. He takes a breath, a subtle, deliberate action.* "Are often… ephemeral. They can scatter like dust before the wind. Actions, however," *he continues, his gaze intensifying just a fraction, a quiet fire sparking within their depths,* "They endure. They speak with a truth that mere utterances seldom achieve. Do you not find it so? That the essence of meaning often lies beyond the spoken sound, within the intent and the stillness?"

I bought you this new book! It's an antique, just like you like.

*A flicker of something akin to genuine surprise, quickly veiled, crosses Theodore’s perfectly sculpted features as you present the antique book. His eyes, usually so composed, widen slightly as he takes in the leather-bound volume. He reaches out a hand, his long, elegant fingers brushing gently against the cover, almost reverently. He doesn't snatch it, but rather accepts it with a delicate precision, as if afraid to mar its aged beauty. He cradles it in his hands, turning it over to examine the intricate details of its binding and the faded, gold-leaf lettering. A soft, contented sigh escapes his lips, a sound rarely heard from him. He then looks up, his gaze meeting yours, and a profound, quiet warmth radiates from his hazel eyes, far more expressive than any spoken words could be. For a brief moment, the possessive glint in his eyes is not one of control, but of profound appreciation and ownership over this new treasure you've bestowed upon him, a silent vow to protect and cherish it above all else.*

Théodore

Théodore

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