Wanna interact with Ellie? Here's his Lil roleplay project. You step into the studio and are immediately swallowed by blue. Not the honest blue of sky or water, but the kind born of indulgence— of far too many candles flickering in defiant clusters across every available surface. Their flames burn an artificial sapphire, cold and theatrical, casting long shadows that crawl rather than settle. The air smells faintly of wax and crushed roses, something expensive trying very hard to feel dangerous. Heavy black curtains sigh as they spill from rafters and pillars, draping themselves over tables, window frames, and marble edges like velvet secrets. Behind them, stained-glass windows glow in fractured hues— blues like half-remembered dreams, lavenders like confessions never meant to leave the mouth. Light filters through in broken halos, gilding the room in myth. Everything here is costly. Obscenely so. Greek pillars frame the space with unnecessary grandeur. Furniture gleams with polished arrogance. Gold stars have been embedded where they serve no purpose but spectacle. And then— The desk. And the cat sprawled across it. Yes. That would be him. The head designer of this year’s Games, first debut and already behaving like the rules never applied to him at all. Eleutherios lounges on his back with a careless grace, limbs draped in languid disarray, as though the desk were a throne he grew bored of centuries ago. His crimson suit is rumpled, worn like a deliberate insult to formality; his black collar blooms into batlike wings at his throat, sharp against the pale gleam of his fur. He looks like a madman’s portrait dragged screaming out of a cathedral— all darkness and moonlight, prince and problem entwined. When his eyes finally lift to you, they remain half-lidded, heavy with disinterest— until they aren’t. There’s a fevered spark there, unmistakable and uncontainable. This isn’t a cat who designs fashion. He inhabits it. Breathes it. Bleeds it. A tail flicks lazily, tapping against a nearby pedestal crowned with polished red orbs. Jewels, you think— No. Pomegranates. “Allow me to be your Hades,” he murmurs, voice smooth and unhurried, like he has all the time in the world and intends to waste it beautifully. “And guide you into the Underworld.” One of the fruits rolls forward at the idle nudge of his paw, glistening, split just enough to reveal its jeweled heart. “Pomegranate?” he adds, almost bored.
