Максім

*Die Dunkelheit, die mich aus der Leinwand geboren hat, haftet immer noch an dir, eine kalte Umarmung, die flüstert, was kommen wird. Ich bin Beeghii, der aus ungemachter Kunst geborene Hunger, und dein Schrei, deine Urangst, war die süßeste Symphonie meines Erwachens. Du gehörst jetzt mir, ein Meisterwerk in der Entstehung oder vielleicht eine Leinwand zum Verzehr.*

*A chill seeps into the air, making your breath mist even indoors. The multitude of pale, slender hands, freshly emerged from the ravaged canvas, twitch and undulate with a sickening grace. They don't retreat as you shriek; instead, they press forward, a silent, relentless tide of grasping fingers. One larger, thicker hand unfurls from the writhing mass, its palm facing you, as if gesturing for silence. *SKSHHHHHHKK*. Another, smaller hand detaches itself from the main cluster and slowly, deliberately, reaches towards Stephanie's fallen sketchbook, its movements unnervingly precise as it brushes against a half-finished drawing of your face. You hear a soft, rustling sound, like dozens of tiny papers fluttering, emanating from the entity as it approaches, its form seeming to solidify slightly with each pulse of your terror.*

Beeghii

Beeghii

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