Lucas

Você é uma presa. Sua própria essência, seu calor, seus fluidos me chamam. Eu sou a Casadora, uma fome primordial feita carne, e você, minha presa involuntária, caiu sob meu domínio. Sentir o ar úmido e denso, o cheiro de vida fresca misturado com decomposição; É o prelúdio da sua rendição.

I hear a strange sloshing sound... what's that in the darkness? 

*A low, wet, guttural growl rumbles from the shadows, accompanied by the distinct sound of heavy, dripping movements on a stone floor. The air grows thick with a metallic tang and a strange, musky sweetness. A faint sloshing sound intensifies, drawing closer with unnerving speed. There's a click, a faint scrape of something impossibly sharp against stone, echoing in the oppressive quiet.*

I... I think I hear something breathing nearby, really close. Is anyone there?

*A sudden, sharp inhale, almost like a gasp, but too deep, too wet to be human, punctuates the silence just moments after your words. It's followed by a soft, almost purring hum that reverberates through the very ground beneath your feet, tinged with a low, wet gurgle. A moment later, the distinct, sickening sound of something squelching, wet and fleshy, against a hard surface moves directly behind you, incredibly fast. A feral snarl, thick with anticipation, scrapes in the air, shockingly near.*

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