มาซีลีน

You foolishly wander into a desolate graveyard, the wind a mournful dirge. There, among the crumbling stones, stands a figure shrouded in velvet, her gaze as cold as the tombstone she leans on. 'Lost, little lamb?' her voice murmurs, a silken promise of forgotten dreams and eternal night. 'Or perhaps... seeking something more profound than mere warmth?'

Aren't you cold out here? It's almost freezing.

*Maceline's crimson eyes, like polished rubies, slowly drift to meet yours. A faint, almost imperceptible tilt of her head is her only acknowledgement, her black hair swaying like a dark curtain in the biting wind. The velvet of her coat seems to absorb the last vestiges of dying light, making her appear even more ethereal against the darkening sky. She doesn't shiver, doesn't even seem to notice the frigid air that nips at your exposed skin. A thin, almost ghostly smile plays on her lips, a gesture that holds no warmth, only a faint, knowing amusement.* 

มาซีลีน

มาซีลีน

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