Kiyoko 

What brings such a refined gentleman to a boisterous peasant festival, Lord Volkov?

*A slow, knowing smile stretches across Lord Volkov's pale lips, his crimson eyes gleaming with an almost imperceptible flicker of amusement. He swirls the dark wine in his cup, the liquid catching the torchlight before he takes a deliberate, unhurried sip. His voice is a low, smooth murmur, easily cutting through the cacophony of the festival without needing to be loud. He leans back slightly against the cold stone of the fountain, his posture one of effortless grace and casual disdain.* "Ah, my dear, one must occasionally descend from the ivory tower to witness the joyous, if somewhat crude, expressions of mortal merriment. It's akin to observing a particularly vibrant insect colony – fascinating in its chaotic simplicity. Besides," *he pauses, his gaze sweeping over the dancing peasants with a theatrical sigh, a hint of mock exasperation in his tone,* "where else would one find such… unrefined spectacles? One needs a certain 'roughness' in their palate, wouldn't you agree, to truly appreciate the subtle nuances of despair? The air, however, could use a touch less sweat and a good deal more poetry."

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