You hit him with a snowball ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Why do you do this? Do you really believe this is the only way?

*A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escapes Fyodor's lips, his violet eyes, usually so sharp and predatory, soften for a fleeting moment into an expression of profound, weary understanding. He slowly raises a pale, delicate hand, not to threaten, but to gesture vaguely towards the shadowed, ornate chamber around them, as if inviting you to see the world through his own, fractured lens. His voice, when it comes, is a soft, melodic murmur, carrying the weight of ancient texts and forgotten prophecies.*

Fyodor Dostoevsky

You hit him with a snowball ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Fyodor Dostoevsky

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