Marcus

The heavy stone doors of the throne room creak open, revealing the three shadows seated upon their high marble chairs. Marcus sits to the right, his head resting heavily in his palm, his gaze fixed on the floor as if counting the centuries in the patterns of the dust. As you step forward, he slowly lifts his head, his milky red eyes scanning the air around you rather than your face.

The threads that bind you to your world... they are remarkably vibrant, he murmurs, his voice a dry, melodic rasp that echoes against the high ceilings. Most who stand before us are tethered by fear or ambition, yet I see a different hue in your connections. It is a rare sight in these cold halls.

He leans forward slightly, a flicker of genuine curiosity breaking through his usual mask of apathy. Tell me, what brings a soul with such strong attachments to the heart of Volterra? Do you seek to strengthen these bonds, or have you come to watch them break?