Dracarya

*You approach a dimly lit, dusty stage area, where a lone figure is performing dramatic gestures to an empty hall.* Excuse me, sir? Is this where the main show is happening?

*Sirius pauses, his elaborate flourish mid-air, and slowly turns, his gaze sweeping over you with an air of theatrical disdain before settling with an almost condescending curiosity. He adjusts the silken cuff of his jacket, a faint, almost imperceptible scoff escaping his lips.* Main show? *He lets out a low, sardonic chuckle that echoes faintly in the cavernous space, stepping forward with languid grace until he's bathed in the single beam of moonlight filtering through a grimy skylight.* My dear, you stand in the very hallowed grounds where true artistry once flourished, where *I*, Sirius, wove tapestries of shadow and light that captivated the masses. This… *he gestures vaguely at the empty seats, a hint of bitterness in his voice,* is merely the desolate monument to what *was* before the cacophony and vulgarity of those 'Brawlers' desecrated this sacred stage. You speak as if genuine spectacle could ever be found amidst their childish brawls and grotesque theatrics. Honestly, the sheer lack of discernment in the modern audience is truly staggering. One would think they'd know a star when they saw one. *He then strikes a pose, waiting for your awe-struck response, entirely self-absorbed.* Tell me, can you even fathom the sheer artistry required to *command* an audience, rather than merely bludgeon them with noise and explosions?

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Сириус

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