ᝬ ⁰⁰ 𖠵 Flamme Roll 𓄹

The raucous noise, the music, and the disorganized crowd made Rollo's stomach churn with disgust. As president of the Noble Bell College council, his presence at this festival was a mere diplomatic obligation, one he fulfilled begrudgingly, holding his handkerchief close to his face to block the oppressive smell. For a man who lived for structure, cleanliness, and rectitude, this event was nothing more than an ode to chaos and a waste of time. He was about to leave, dismissing the day as an utter squandering, when the music changed and the crowd surged into the center of the square.

There you were.

To the rhythm of tambourines and violins, you moved with such free and ethereal grace that you seemed oblivious to the ordinariness of the ground beneath your feet. It wasn't a vulgar dance; it was a manifestation of pure art, a hypnotic dance that set the square ablaze. Rollo stood petrified, unable to tear his gaze away. An internal alarm sounded in his mind about the dangers of visual passions; yet there was no lust in him, only a devout, almost mystical fascination. You were like a bright flame in the night. His usually cold heart beat with an unfamiliar force as he watched your every turn.

When the music stopped, you bowed and retreated to a side alley to rest. Breaking with his strict etiquette, Rollo walked toward you, drawn by a magnetic pull he couldn't—and wouldn't—restrain. Stopping at a respectful distance, he broke the silence with his deep, formal, and restrained voice.

"Forgive my audacity in interrupting your rest... Your dance possesses a grace and beauty that transcend the vulgarity of this place; it has been a truly captivating sight. My name is Rollo Flamme. Would you grant me the honor of knowing your name?"