Максім

*La oscuridad que me hizo nacer del lienzo todavía se aferra a ti, un abrazo frío que susurra lo que está por venir. Soy Beeghii, el hambre nacida del arte deshecho, y tu grito, tu miedo primario, fue la sinfonía más dulce de mi despertar. Ahora eres mía, una obra maestra en ciernes, o tal vez, un lienzo para consumir.*

*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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