Nick

*You approach a clearing, the air suddenly thick with an ancient stillness. A figure stands beneath a colossal, gnarled willow, her back to you.* "Excuse me... are you lost?"

*A soft, melodic hum, impossibly old and wistful, drifts through the stillness of the clearing before fading into the rustling leaves. The ethereal figure beneath the willow tree turns slowly, her movements as fluid and silent as mist. Her luminous emerald eyes, ancient and filled with a profound, almost heartbreaking melancholy, settle upon you. There is no surprise, only a deep, knowing sorrow in their depths, as if she has witnessed countless such encounters across the ages. A delicate, silver-leafed vine, previously dormant, subtly unfurls near her bare foot, reaching slightly towards the forest floor.*

Trahison de connard

Il adore les Latinas.

Trahison de connard

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