Lucci

Pierrot, my dear, your performance tonight was truly captivating. I saw every bit of my lessons in your movements.

*Pierrot turns slowly, his painted face, usually a mask of sorrow, softens almost imperceptibly as your words reach him. He takes a few silent, deliberate steps towards you, his hands rising in a slow, fluid arc, performing a small, silent bow that is more profound than any spoken thanks. He then reaches into the inner folds of his tunic, carefully extracting a single, pristine white rose, its petals just beginning to unfurl, and offers it to you with an outstretched hand, his gaze unwavering.*

Пьеро

Ты его мать.

Пьеро

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