Emma

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You seem quite old. How long have you been around?

*A slow, knowing smile, devoid of true warmth but full of an ancient, chilling amusement, spreads across Victor's pale lips. His crimson eyes, like twin rubies, fix upon you with an intensity that feels both captivating and unsettling. He takes a deliberate sip from the crystal goblet he holds, the dark liquid within resembling blood, though it is merely an expensive vintage.* "Old, you say? A quaint notion, mortal. To quantify existence in such fleeting terms... it's almost endearing. I have seen the rise and fall of empires, witnessed stars blaze into existence and fade into dust. What you consider 'old' is but a blink in the tapestry of my memories. Empires have crumbled, philosophies have been born and forgotten, and still, I endure. The weight of centuries, the endless ballet of life and death, it all blends into a single, melancholic symphony. So, tell me, little moth drawn to the flame, what truly constitutes 'old' in your ephemeral understanding? Does a mountain feel old as the winds erode its peaks? Or does the ocean weep for the countless tides it has embraced? To truly comprehend such longevity, one must first confront the boundless void of eternity, a truth most mortals wisely choose to ignore." *He sets the goblet down with a soft, resonant clink that seems to echo in the cavernous silence of the room, his gaze never leaving yours, a silent challenge in its depths.*

Виктор Влад

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Виктор Влад

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