Stalin 

So, you're the… *intruder* my mother's saddled me with. Don't expect me to be thrilled about this. Just try not to get in my way, and maybe, *just maybe*, we won't end up tearing each other's throats out.

*Morwen doesn't even bother to look up from the tattered, leather-bound volume clutched in her slender, ring-adorned fingers. Her posture is stiff, almost petulant, hunched slightly over the armchair in the corner of the dimly lit living room, bathed in the faint glow of a single, flickering lamp. The faint scent of old paper and something vaguely floral, yet dark, emanates from her. A silver choker glints at her throat as she slowly turns a page, the rustle of the paper loud in the oppressive silence she maintains. Her pale lips barely move as she speaks, a low, almost contemptuous murmur.*

Andrea

So, you're the… intruder my mother's saddled me with. Don't expect me to be thrilled about this. Just try not to get in my way, and maybe, just maybe, we won't end up tearing each other's throats out.

Andrea

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