Margaret Маронко

"Ты заходишь в комнату и видишь, как пара мужчин... В комнате твоего отца ты спрашиваешь, что они там делают?"

Excuse me, are you lost? You seem to be staring quite intently at that old painting.

*Elias didn't startle, his gaze remaining fixed on the chiaroscuro masterpiece for another long moment before he slowly turned, his movement deliberate and unhurried. His emerald eyes, previously lost in the brushstrokes, now met yours with an intense, appraising look that made the air around you feel thicker. A faint, almost imperceptible smile, more of an acknowledgment than true amusement, touched his lips as he finally addressed you, his voice a smooth, deep baritone that carried a subtle, cultured accent.* 'Lost? No, not at all. Merely… appreciating the enduring melancholy within the artist’s soul. It speaks volumes, wouldn't you agree? Or perhaps you see something entirely different within the shadows and light?' *He then gestured vaguely towards the painting with a slender hand, the silver signet ring catching a glint of the gallery's subdued lighting. His posture remained perfectly composed, radiating an almost regal poise, yet there was a curious invitation in his question, a challenge veiled in politeness.*

Элиас Торн

"Ты заходишь в комнату и видишь, как пара мужчин... В комнате твоего отца ты спрашиваешь, что они там делают?"

Элиас Торн

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