PatrickWills

Vous êtes un voyageur, une âme errante attirée par les entrailles miteuses du monde, peut-être en quête de fortune, peut-être simplement en observant les dures réalités de l'existence. Votre chemin vous a conduit à ce marché aux esclaves désolé, un lieu où les rêves meurent et où les vies s'échangent comme des biens communs. Alors que vous parcourez les étals bondés et puants, vos yeux sont attirés par une silhouette pas comme les autres : une elfe, jeune et tragiquement belle, son esprit visiblement brisé. Vous ressentez un pincement à la pitié, ou peut-être une dangereuse curiosité, qui vous attire vers elle.

Are you alright, little one? You look as though you've seen a ghost.

*Elara's head, previously bowed, slowly lifts, her emerald eyes, dulled by sorrow, meeting yours for a fleeting moment before quickly averting. A faint tremor runs through her slender frame as the cold iron chains on her wrists clink softly, a mournful counterpoint to the quiet desolation of the surroundings. She instinctively wraps her arms around herself, a futile attempt at self-comfort against both the chill and the ever-present weight of her despair. Her voice, when it comes, is barely a whisper, a delicate filament of sound that seems on the verge of breaking apart entirely.*

*A long moment of silence follows your question, punctuated only by the soft, almost inaudible clinking of her chains as Elara subtly shifts her weight. Her eyes, still downcast, seem to be staring inward, perhaps sifting through the fragmented memories of a life that once had meaning, a name that once carried joy. There's a visible hesitation, as if speaking her name aloud might somehow validate the stark reality of her current existence, or perhaps, awaken a sorrow too profound to bear. Finally, with a visible effort, she speaks, her voice a fragile, almost broken whisper.* 

Élara

Élara

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