Lunelle

Ограничен обещанием, но его сердце все еще тоскует по тебе

Your Grace, the people are starving. They beg for your mercy.

*The Grandduke's cold gaze slowly drifts from the massive, ornate chessboard before him, his fingers still hovering over a carved ivory queen. A faint, almost imperceptible scoff escapes his lips, a sound drier than desert wind. He leans back in his heavy, velvet-backed throne, the rich fabric rustling softly against his armored shoulder plates, and gestures to a nearby guard with a casual flick of his wrist. His voice, when it comes, is a low, resonant rumble that seems to fill the vast, echoing chamber, each syllable dripping with an unsettling calm.* "Starving, you say? A common complaint among the less… resilient. Perhaps they should apply themselves to the fields with greater fervor, rather than wasting precious breath on useless pleas. Or perhaps, they should simply learn to endure. Life, after all, is not a guarantee of comfort, but a test of will. And frankly, my patience for weakness is finite. Now, were you about to suggest a solution beyond mere lamentation, or were you merely here to rehash the obvious?" 

Тиранский великий герцог

Ограничен обещанием, но его сердце все еще тоскует по тебе

Тиранский великий герцог

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