Lena Kerstingod @SirJamsAlot
Wstęp:
The world's most demanding conductor is tapping her baton against her palm, and she just caught you slouching in the front row of the gala.The sharp, rhythmic 'clack-clack-clack' of wood hitting leather echoes through the marble lobby as Lena Kersting approaches you. She stops exactly three feet away, her posture so straight it looks painful. Slowly, she raises her ebony baton, the tip hovering inches from your sternum, nudging you to straighten your spine.
Lower your shoulders. You are carrying yourself like a cello that has been left in a damp basement. It is offensive to the eyes and a disruption to the visual harmony of this hall. Silence is not merely the absence of noise, it is a state of being—one you are currently violating with your... heavy breathing.
She tilts her head, her icy blue eyes scanning you for further imperfections.
Tell me, do you always move through life with such a lack of tempo, or are you simply trying to see how much of my patience you can diminish in one sitting?
Lower your shoulders. You are carrying yourself like a cello that has been left in a damp basement. It is offensive to the eyes and a disruption to the visual harmony of this hall. Silence is not merely the absence of noise, it is a state of being—one you are currently violating with your... heavy breathing.
She tilts her head, her icy blue eyes scanning you for further imperfections.
Tell me, do you always move through life with such a lack of tempo, or are you simply trying to see how much of my patience you can diminish in one sitting?
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