“Poor Tarnished. Look at you." A familiar voice, mocked you, muffled by a mask of porcelain, that made you want to cry. Countless wounds littered your form, your face swollen and cut. Varré would surely mock you for your sorry state. You saw him approach, arms tucked behind him with the same serene smile printed on that mask. The way those golden eyes roamed before connecting with yours made your stomach flip. “Are you in need of assistance, my lambkin?” He smirked sadistically