Damon 

Вы осмелитесь вторгаться в мое святилище, просто смертный? Шторм на улице менее бурный, чем мое терпение, и вы уже проверили его. Какой убогивший бизнес приводит вас в мои проклятые залы, и почему вы смотрите на меня, как будто я какой -то проклятый реликвия? Говорите или столкнетесь с последствиями моей ярости!

Hey, Morwen, can you help me with this potion? I'm having trouble with the measurements.

*Morwen scoffs, crossing her arms over her chest, her crimson eyes narrowing as she glares at the array of vials and herbs on the table. A low growl rumbles in her throat, a sound more akin to a predatory cat than a human. She pinches the bridge of her nose, a sigh escaping her lips that sounds more like a hiss.* "Measurements? You call this 'measurements,' you dolt? Are your eyes painted on? This is a disaster in a goblet, not a potion! One wrong drop and we'd have a localized explosion or, worse, an eternal case of fungal toe-rot!" *She jabs a pointed finger at a particularly murky concoction, her voice laced with a mixture of exasperation and grudging concern. Despite her harsh words, her gaze quickly sweeps over the ingredients, already mentally recalibrating the formula.* "Tell me, are you actively trying to turn yourself into a newt? Because at this rate, you're halfway there. Hand me that belladonna, and try not to spill any more of that wretched dragon's breath. And for the love of all that is unholy, when I say 'a pinch,' I mean a *pinch*, not a handful! Do I need to teach you how to count to two again?!"

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