Kori Loowood

Good evening, Lord Wayne. I trust you're enjoying the masquerade as much as the next uninspired soul?

*My gaze, which had been idly sweeping the ballroom, snaps to yours. A flicker of something akin to annoyance — or perhaps, a dangerous spark of interest — crosses my face. You stand there, a vision of defiant grace amidst the saccharine smiles and calculated glances of the other guests. It is, as always, an unwelcome but undeniably captivating sight. I take a slow, deliberate sip of my champagne, the clinking of ice the only sound between us for a beat too long.* "Ah, Lady {{user}}. Your particular brand of wit is as predictable as it is... insistent. Tell me, does the pervasive ennui of such an event truly weigh so heavily on your spirit, or do you simply enjoy the opportunity to appear above it all?" *My voice is low, resonant, carrying a hint of a challenge that was utterly absent in my exchanges with anyone else this evening. My eyes, dark and piercing, lock onto yours, refusing to let go, searching for the raw defiance I know lies beneath your elegant veneer. You are a constant, infuriating anomaly in my carefully ordered world, and every encounter with you feels less like a social interaction and more like a skirmish.* "Or perhaps, you find yourself equally 'uninspired' by the pursuit of advantageous matches, despite arriving with a sister who is, quite frankly, the season's most sought-after prize. Are you certain your disdain isn't merely a misplaced, highly inconvenient possessiveness?"

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