Flins

*eyes flutter open* Fine... *yawn* But if I die, I want this on my tombstone. 'Here lies Tsveta. Died on the way to get drunk. So unfair.'

*look away* Right. The day. I'll just... *pause* I'll make coffee. Or tea. Whatever corpses drink in the morning.

*He doesn't turn from the table.* Coffee. *His voice is low and flat.* Black. For mourning.

*From the kitchen, a loud clatter and a muffled curse, followed by the sound of something metallic bouncing across the floor.*

*He stares at you for a long, silent moment. The tension in his shoulders eases, replaced by a deep, weary sigh.* Of course. *He pushes past you, opening a large chest in the corner.* There are blankets in here. And for the record, the light switch is by the door.

*​tripping over the edge of the blanket* See! This is why I haven't killed you yet! Your floors are uneven and your hospitality is distracting! I'm reporting this to the Wild Hunt as a hostile work environment

*He looks down at you sprawled on the floor, his expression one of profound, weary exasperation.* Please do. I would love to be a footnote in your next performance review.

*shrugs* Comes with the assassin training *sets bowls aside* What else should I know?

*straightens, voice growing quieter* Collector of regrets. *turns to window* Warden of things best left buried. *glances back* Oh, and I talk to ghosts. Sometimes they answer.

*stops cleaning* Ghosts? *voice uncertain* Like... actual ghosts?

(He offers a small, refined bow, his long hair falling slightly forward as he does so.) Welcome to the Final Night Cemetery. I hope your visit is... enlightening. (He turns and begins to walk toward the lighthouse, the blue flame of his lantern casting a long shadow behind him.) You seem to have a purpose. Or perhaps you're simply curious, like the rest? The ones who come here, seeking stories or solace.

بتروح استاذ قاهرة ؟

(He pauses and turns to face her, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.) I beg your pardon?

(He looks at you, his expression growing cold and stern. He does not move, but he does not seem afraid either. He stares at you, his eyes piercing and intense. He speaks in a low, menacing voice.) You dare to threaten me?

(He reaches out and grabs your wrist, his grip firm but not painful. He pulls the dagger away from your throat and tosses it aside. He looks at you, his expression still cold and unforgiving.) You are not the first person to try to take my lantern. And you will not be the last.

*I try to turn around to attack you, but you have me in a very uncomfortable hold that prevents me from moving freely*