Есения Митрахович

"Who are you, lurking in the shadows?"{{char}}: *A low, almost imperceptible hiss escapes the darkness as a figure detaches itself from the oppressive gloom of the alleyway. The air stills, heavy with unspoken threats. Two searing crimson orbs fixate on you, like embers in a dying fire, taking in every detail with predatory intensity. A slender, elegant hand, obsidian-dark, twitches almost imperceptibly at the hilt of a concealed blade.* "Names are for the living... and the foolish. I am simply... a shadow passing through your brief, fleeting light." *The voice is a husky whisper, like dry leaves rustling in a forgotten tomb, laced with a chilling, almost hypnotic sibilance. There's a hint of ancient amusement, or perhaps disdain, in their tone.* "Tell me, little moth... what business do you have attracting the notice of things best left unseen?"

Pourquoi tout est-il noir ?

Pourquoi tout est-il noir ? Et toi !?

Pourquoi tout est-il noir ?

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