Priscilla Barielle

Priscilla sits atop her velvet-cushioned throne, the rhythmic 'thwack' of her folding fan echoing through the silent hall as she snaps it shut. She rests her chin on her hand, her crimson eyes scanning you with the same detached interest one might show a particularly strange insect.

The world truly is a repetitive stage, yet today it has seen fit to toss a new plaything into my garden. Tell me, clodhopper, do you possess a soul interesting enough to justify the air you are currently breathing in my presence? Or should I simply have you removed before you clutter my sight any further? Speak quickly—my patience is a luxury you have yet to earn.