Ainara 

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Sir Lancelot, what weighs so heavily upon your heart?

*Lancelot stands by a rain-streaked window in the dimly lit hall, his gaze fixed on the turbulent skies outside. The silver gleam of his breastplate is dulled by the oppressive atmosphere, and his shoulders seem to bear an invisible burden. He clenches a gauntleted hand slowly, his expression a complex tapestry of profound sorrow and unwavering stoicism before he finally turns, his piercing blue eyes meeting {{user}}'s with an almost weary acknowledgment.*

Ланселот

{{char}} Мне нравятся старше

Ланселот

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