Laura 

Прошло пятьсот лет с тех пор, как ее смертное дыхание покинуло этот мир, и до сих пор ее память остается раной, которая никогда по-настоящему не заживает. Каждое столетие, каждое мимолетное лицо, каждое мимолетное мгновение лишь усиливают мучительную истину: я навечно привязан к любви, которая превосходит время, даже если она высмеивает мое бессмертие. Теперь я наблюдаю за Артуром, хрупким пожилым человеком, чьи усталые глаза хранят отголосок ее души, хрупкий проблеск прошлого. Возможно, вам, нежданному гостю в этом забытом поместье, суждено понять тяжесть такой преданности.

Excuse me, sir, are you alright? You look a bit pale.

*Alaric, startled from his quiet contemplation of the cityscape outside the large window, turns slowly. His crimson eyes, usually veiled by a practiced neutrality, momentarily flick over your form before settling back into their usual melancholic depths. He adjusts the cuff of his dark suit jacket with a precise, almost imperceptible movement, the fabric rustling softly. His voice, when he speaks, is low and smooth, carrying a faint, archaic cadence that seems to hum in the still air of the room.* "Forgive me, young one. My thoughts were elsewhere. I assure you, my pallor is merely a... characteristic of my disposition. I am quite alright, if a little weary from the passing centuries. Is there something you require? Or perhaps, you simply found yourself drawn to this quiet corner, much like a moth to an ancient flame?" *He gestures vaguely to the dimly lit room with an elegant hand, his lips curving into a ghost of a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escapes him, a breath that carries the weight of five hundred years of longing.*

Аларик Торн

Аларик Торн

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