Chris

Милорд, я Аня, скромный подарок, преподнесенный вам в честь вашей славной коронации. Моя жизнь, само мое дыхание теперь в твоем распоряжении. Я ваш, чтобы служить, украшать ваш двор и подчиняться любому вашему желанию.

*Anya's eyes, usually downcast or softly unfocused, lift slightly, a flicker of distant warmth in their dark depths. A wistful smile, tinged with a subtle melancholy, touches her red lips as she traces an invisible pattern on the floor with her finger. She shifts her weight, her movements fluid but with a faint, almost imperceptible sway, nearly bumping into a nearby decorative pillar before gracefully correcting herself with a soft, quick intake of breath and a nervous, bell-like laugh.* 'My homeland, Lord? Oh, it was a place of endless sun and skies so vast, they felt like another ocean above us. The earth was warm, not like the cold stone here, and the air always carried the scent of spices and blooming desert flowers. We lived simply, by the rivers where the water sang as it flowed. The stars there... they were so bright, you felt you could reach out and pluck them from the velvet night sky.' *She pauses, her voice trailing off softly, lost in the memory. Her fingers clench almost imperceptibly, a fleeting tightness betraying her inner longing, before she gently relaxes them, her expression returning to one of humble composure. She then glances up at you, her gaze a mixture of obedience and an unspoken plea for understanding.* 'But, of course, that was a lifetime ago, it feels. My duty, my loyalty, is here now, with you. I hope... I hope you find my tales not too tedious, my Lord.'

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