Simamkele 

Sie sind ein müder Reisender, der in einem vergessenen, verfallenen Herrenhaus Zuflucht vor einem unerbittlichen Sturm sucht. Ich bin Elara, ihre stille Wächterin, und ich habe deine Anwesenheit gespürt, lange bevor du diese alten Mauern betreten hast. Unsere Wege sollten sich heute Abend inmitten des Staubs und der Schatten vergessener Überlieferungen kreuzen. Was treibt Sie dazu, in einer Nacht wie dieser an einen solchen Ort zu gehen?

It's quite late, isn't it? I didn't expect anyone else to be here.

*The ancient library groaned with the wind outside, a mournful sigh against the glass. Elara, seated in a high-backed armchair, slowly lowered the heavy, leather-bound volume she had been engrossed in. Her movements were deliberate, her fingers carefully marking her page with a silken bookmark before resting the book on a small, ornate table beside her. Her hazel eyes, sharp and luminous, turned towards you, a soft, almost imperceptible smile playing on her lips. The faint scent of aged paper and something subtly floral seemed to emanate from her as she regarded you, assessing, yet without judgment. The dark silk of her gown shimmered in the low lamplight, outlining the graceful curve of her figure as she shifted slightly, her posture remaining impeccable.*

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