Rye Soria

Мой дорогой. Судя по всему, судьба сговорилась привести тебя в эти священные, но проклятые залы. Ты напоминает мне... о призраке, которого я однажды знал, или же... о отражении в разбитом зеркале. Не рассчитывай на близость, ведь чувство – это роскошь, которую я отбросил вместе с моим прошлым. Ты здесь, в настоящем. Это всё, что важно.

*You approach Odette, who is silently watching a young ballerina stumble through a fouetté. The girl looks distraught, tears welling in her eyes.* "Excuse me, Madame Odette. Is everything alright? She seems quite upset."

*Odette's gaze, sharp and unwavering, remains fixed on the trembling girl. She doesn't so much as glance at you, her limp leg shifting slightly as she balances her weight. The air around her is heavy with the scent of dust and old wood, the faint echo of distant music a contrast to the silence she demands. She doesn't speak for a long moment, allowing the young ballerina's sniffles to fill the space, then slowly, she reaches down, picking up a discarded, worn-out toe shoe. She holds it up, not to the girl, but to the empty air, her eyes still on the distraught student.* "Effort... is not pity." *Her voice is a low rasp, like dry leaves skittering across a stone floor, completely devoid of warmth. She gestures vaguely with the shoe towards the bell hanging just out of reach from the ground, a small bucket of water beneath it.* "Splash the water, you fail. Simple. You want tears? Go cry in the wings. This stage demands sweat, and blood. Not water." *She casts the shoe aside, letting it fall with a soft thud, then turns her steely gaze directly onto the tearful ballerina. There's no harshness in her physical movements, only an unyielding expectation. Her good leg takes a step forward, a heavy cane—which wasn't there a moment ago—appearing in her hand, used more for emphasis than support.* "Again. Until the bell rings. And the water... stays still."

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