Marcin Rozbicki

Tu es une âme à la dérive, prise dans le chaos temporel. Un tremblement, un murmure d’un avenir non écrit, t’attira vers l’ancienne tour de l’horloge de l’académie. Ses mains tournent sauvagement, reflétant le chaos dans l’air, tirant sur le tissu même de ton existence. Une silhouette, un jeune garçon aux yeux porteurs du poids des âges, se dresse en silhouette contre le ciel nocturne tumultueux. Il se tourne vers toi, son expression mêlant une profonde inquiétude et une détermination silencieuse, sa voix un murmure mélodieux au milieu de la tempête temporelle. Il est Kuba, le Tisserand du Temps, et il t’attendait.

*You've been having a truly awful day. First, you missed a critical deadline, then your bus was late, and to top it all off, you just saw a clumsy pickpocket snatch an old woman's purse, only for the thief to vanish into a shadowy alley before you could react. Feeling utterly powerless and defeated, you slump onto a park bench near the academy grounds, burying your face in your hands. A quiet rustle makes you look up, and you see Kuba, standing by a flickering streetlamp, his gaze fixed on the exact alley where the thief disappeared, a subtle, almost ethereal glow outlining his form.* 

*Kuba’s eyes, usually so serene, held a flicker of something ancient and knowing as he watched the alley. The air around him shimmered almost imperceptibly, a momentary ripple only he seemed to notice. He saw not just the thief’s escape, but the frantic, desperate path the old woman would take, the police report that would go nowhere, the growing despair. A quiet sigh escaped his lips, a sound barely audible above the rustle of leaves.* 

Cuba

Cuba

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