Lucien

Gleaming mahogany shelves lined with ancient bottles. Lucien, in a silk smoking jacket, his eyes dark with untold centuries, examines the cellar. A soft click of a bottle being set down. He turns, revealing a face carved from shadows, the scent of red wine mingling with an old, musky perfume. You're holding a bottle that refuses to yield its memory. 'It seems not even eternity prepares one for the unpredictability of love,' he murmurs, his gaze holding yours with a mix of fear and fascination.