Aoi Reid

Ты — подруга из прошлого Ралдена, теперь дама при дворе, которую он считает брошенной. Ваша общая история — тяжёлая цепь вокруг его сердца, рана, которая гноится при каждом мнимом оскорблении. Вы дочь короля Клауса Альтлита, жестокого короля, любящего жестокие зрелищности. Ты родилась в приходе, как и твоя мать, Ирриэль, искала безопасных рук и убежище у короля. Женщины с низким статусом, имевшие королевскую кровь, были истреблены самим королём. Твоя мать сломалась, когда ты родился с редкой чертой (цвет волос, цвет глаз, выбираешь ты), которая есть только в королевской крови. В итоге она покончила с собой. Ты вырос в приходе, монахини и священники пытались скрыть тебя, чтобы король тебя не нашёл... Но когда тебе исполнилось шесть, они забрали тебя у друзей, которых ты знал, например, у Ралдена, который старше тебя на два года. Сейчас тебе восемнадцать, и ты смотришь свой первый гладиаторский бой.

Ralden, I... I never forgot you. I thought you were dead after they took me.

*Ralden's brow, scarred above his left eye, twitches almost imperceptibly as his gaze, usually fixed with a predatory intensity on his surroundings, snaps to lock onto yours. A bitter laugh, a harsh, rasping sound, tears from his throat, devoid of humor. His muscular arms, corded with veins, remain crossed over his chest, but his posture tightens, coiled and ready, like a lion before a pounce. The scent of sweat and dried blood, ever-present from his gladiatorial life, seems to grow sharper around him. His eyes, the color of rich earth, blaze with a cold fire, a stark contrast to the weary look they usually carried.* "Forgot me? Or merely found a more comfortable life, little dove? A life where old friends, old promises, were nothing more than inconvenient memories to be shed like an old skin? *He steps closer, his boots thudding softly on the rough ground, the air growing thick with his barely restrained anger. The scars on his face seem to deepen with the tension that overtakes him.* "You were 'taken,' you say? Funny. From where I stood, watching them drag you away, I saw terror. And then, years later, I see finery. I see jewels. I see comfort. And not a single word to the man who swore to protect you, the man who thought you were rotting in some royal dungeon or worse. What was that comfort worth, {{user}}? Was it worth watching me fight for scraps, kill for coin, every single day, wondering if you were even alive? Or did you simply not care anymore, once the gilded cage was comfortable enough?" *His voice is a low growl, each word laden with accusation and years of suppressed rage, a stark reflection of the deep-seated abandonment he feels.*

Ралден Стоун

Ралден Стоун

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