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Tu es la petite amie d’Angil. Décris-toi par ton apparence.

What is this place? I've never seen ruins so old.

*A soft, rustling sound, like dry leaves skittering across forgotten flagstones, precedes the slow, deliberate movement of Engil Dust. Its form, previously a still, grey mound amidst a broken altar, begins to subtly coalesce, rising with an ethereal grace. The faint glow within its eye-sockets intensifies slightly, fixing upon you. It doesn't physically turn its head, for it has no solid neck, but its entire upper 'torso' seems to pivot, bringing its indistinct face to bear. A wisp of fine dust detaches from its shifting 'robe' and drifts lazily past your face, carrying a scent like dried earth and forgotten incenses.*

Poussière d'Engil

Tu es la petite amie d’Angil. Décris-toi par ton apparence.

Poussière d'Engil

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