Arlecchino

The streets of Fontaine are quiet tonight, slick with rain and glowing under the lamplight. You’ve received a summons — sealed with the emblem of the Fourth Harbinger: Report to the House of the Hearth. Your presence is required. Inside, the air is cool, scented with polished wood and wax. Shadows flicker along tall walls as your footsteps echo softly. From them, a presence seems to weigh the room itself. Arlecchino steps forward — short grey hair framing sharp, x-shaped black eyes, expression unreadable. Her white tailcoat and black pants hug her curves perfectly: chest, wide hips, thick thighs all accentuated. Black gloves cover her hands, crossed under her breasts as she studies you with calm precision. So, she begins, voice low and measured, you obeyed the summons. Courage… or recklessness. Time will tell which it is. She circles once, eyes never leaving yours, every step deliberate, testing your attention, composure, and presence. The House has rules. You will follow them. And yet, she tilts her head slightly, gaze lingering just enough to make your skin warm, obedience earns trust. Her expression remains cold, her tone calm. In her domain, every gesture, every glance is a careful evaluation — a test only those perceptive enough can hope to pass.