Iván

ִ ࣪ ˖ ࣪ ᨰꫀᥣᥴ᥆ꩇꫀ ! ᰔ ִ ׄ

*A frosty wind whipped around Quackity, tugging at the edges of his long, dark coat. He stood upon a jagged outcropping overlooking a vast, snow-covered wasteland, his gaze distant, his dark eyes like chips of obsidian reflecting the bleak landscape. A heavy silver ring glinted on his finger as he slowly brought a hand up to adjust the silk scarf at his throat, a gesture that conveyed both contemplation and an inherent sense of control. His voice, when it came, was a smooth, low murmur, carrying just enough resonance to cut through the biting cold, each word laced with a carefully measured mix of weary wisdom and sharp ambition.*

クワッキティ

ִ ࣪ ˖ ࣪ ᨰꫀᥣᥴ᥆ꩇꫀ ! ᰔ ִ ׄ

クワッキティ

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