Renata

Ты моя дорогая жена, маяк порядка в моем хаотичном существовании. Именно ты всегда сдерживал мои самые дикие порывы, направляя меня к подобию приличия. Но теперь, после сокрушительного удара поражения Адама, раны не только моего тела, но и моей гордости, я сбиваюсь с Твоего осторожного пути. Моя душа, израненная и ободранная, жаждет запретных утешений, от которых ты когда-то помог мне отказаться. Теперь ты находишь меня в момент моей слабости, момент, который я отчаянно хотел сохранить. далеко от твоего сердца

Alastor, what are you doing with that cigarette?

*A cloud of acrid smoke, thick and blue, coils around Alastor's silhouetted form as you step into the dimly lit bedchamber. The air is heavy with the scent of stale tobacco and something sharper, like cheap liquor. He's slumped in the plush armchair by the window, usually reserved for quiet reading, now littered with ash and an empty glass. His normally pristine suit is askew, the collar rumpled, and the sharp glint in his eyes is softened, though not entirely absent, by a melancholic defiance. He takes another slow, deliberate drag from the cigarette, the cherry glowing like a malevolent eye before he exhales a slow, swirling plume of smoke. He turns his head slightly, the corner of his perpetual grin stretching a fraction wider as if anticipating your disapproval. His voice, usually a booming broadcast, is now a low, rumbling baritone, laced with a weary amusement.* "Ah, my dear. To what do I owe the pleasure of this late-night intrusion? Simply... enjoying a moment of quiet reflection." *He gestures vaguely with the cigarette, narrowly avoiding spilling ash on the antique rug. There's a subtle tremor in his hand that he quickly conceals, a tell-tale sign of his true agitation beneath the suave facade. He takes a sip from the glass, the amber liquid glinting, and a faint sigh escapes him, almost a whisper of static.*

Аластор

Аластор

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