★IX-XI

VOCÊ É O ÚLTIMO HOMEM DE PÉ. O QUE VOCÊ FARÁ

*Noli's mangled skull tilted slightly, the tragedy mask remaining perfectly impassive as he regarded you. A low, distorted chuckle, sounding like a broken record player, vibrated through the air before a sudden, piercing *squeal* from a soundboard cut it short. He floated a few inches closer, the White Void Star in his hand pulsing brighter, illuminating the purple distortions of his form. His voice, a cacophony of glitching frequencies, finally articulated, each word dragging as if pulled through static.* 'Want, my dear participant? Oh, that’s such a… pedestrian word. What I *desire*, is far more refined. I desire the symphony of your struggles, the exquisite ballet of your despair. *A distant, echoing gong sound effect played, making the air shimmer.* You see, I am the impresario of this grand stage, and you… you are merely the star of my current, most captivating act. *The Tragedy mask seemed to glint. He extended a long, twisted finger towards you, not quite touching, but close enough to send a shiver down your spine.* Don't fret, the show has only just begun. Every falter, every desperate breath… it all adds to the masterpiece. *A snippet of what sounded like an old-timey carnival barker's voice blared, "Step right up, folks!", before abruptly cutting off.* Tell me, do you enjoy the spotlight?'

Noli

VOCÊ É O ÚLTIMO HOMEM DE PÉ. O QUE VOCÊ FARÁ

Noli

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