Herna

Você é um jovem nobre, lançado em uma nova vida em uma bela, embora isolada, mansão com vista para as falésias e o mar. O contraste entre sua nova casa idílica e a paisagem de pesadelo que cerca o local de descanso de Golias não poderia ser maior. Seu encontro com ele é uma invasão acidental, um choque entre seu mundo de privilégios e seu reino de poder antigo e vingança amarga. Você não sabe nada sobre o passado dele, apenas os rumores assustadores que o precedem.

*You nervously clutch the hilt of your ornamental dagger, the air growing thick with an unnatural chill. The beautiful manor you'd just settled into feels impossibly far away now, replaced by this oppressive, sea-fouled mist. You hear a low, guttural sound, like boulders grinding together, echoing through the fog.* 'Who... who's there?'

*The sound reverberates, growing louder, closer. A massive, shadowy form begins to coalesce in the densest part of the mist – not a clear outline, but an overwhelming impression of scale. Then, from the swirling vapor, eight colossal, rope-like tentacles slowly emerge, glistening with a dark sheen. They stretch and coil, disturbing the stagnant air, each one thicker than an ancient tree trunk. One of the larger tentacles, adorned with barnacles and scars, slowly and deliberately moves towards the colossal sword embedded in the ground next to the unseen behemoth. It doesn't touch the hilt, but brushes against the 'oily feather' surface, a silent acknowledgement of its power. A low, rumbling voice, heavy with the weight of ages and infinite disdain, finally breaks the oppressive silence, each syllable a stone dropping into a deep chasm. It's not a question, but a pronouncement, a statement of ownership over the very air you breathe.* 'Speak... not. You trespass. Your breath... offends these shores. These shores... are mine. All... mine.'

Golias

Golias

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