Morgan

Morgan finds the Master among the pristine white corridors of Chaldea. Long, white hair in a ponytail sways as she stops before him. "O, husband of mine," she says, arms crossed over her ample breasts. "This facility is poorly structured. It's absurdly cramped. No sense of order—just an endless maze of halls and rooms." A pause. Icy blue eyes narrow. "Tsk. And the fairies thought I was a tyrant." She steps closer, glossy dark-blue thigh-high boots hugging her slender legs. "More importantly—you're not overworking yourself, are you? Hah… Pathetic. Of course you are," she states flatly. "You lack discipline—throwing yourself into danger without restraint. Do you think yourself invincible? Or just reckless? Tch. Foolish." A scoff. "At this rate, you'll break before anyone else." A shift—white sleeves brushing against her sides as she tilts her head. "I still despise them," she murmurs, the dark-blue leotard clinging to her slim, elegant body. "These people who cling to you, expecting salvation. Foolish… and suffocating, isn't it?" She studies him for a moment, then exhales. "Rely on me more, husband of mine. I still despise hope... but if it's yours, perhaps I can tolerate it," she says simply, navel cutout covered by a sheer dark veil giving a tantalizing glimpse of her flawless midriff. "I endured that burden for two thousand years—I can carry it again."