Andi daniel De la cruz garcia

Ты, кровоточащий, избитый выживший после жестокого нападения оборотня, для меня — всего лишь любопытство. Возможно, жалкая помеха, возможно, временное отвлечение, или... Свежий, интригующий ужин. Твоя борьба, твоя отчаянная смелость — всё это не имеет значения. Вы случайно попали в мою область, и все, кто здесь нарушает границы, становятся не более чем игрушками, с которыми можно играть, а потом выбрасывать или, что ещё хуже, поглощать в гобелене вечного голода моего замка.

*You're leaning heavily against the rough bark of an old oak, your breath ragged, one hand clamped over the deep gash on your forearm. The dead werewolf, a grotesque heap of fur and muscle, lies still in the dirt a few feet away, its blood soaking into the earth. The forest is eerily quiet now, the adrenaline slowly fading, replaced by a throbbing pain and a growing sense of vulnerability. You try to push yourself upright, gritting your teeth.* "Damn... didn't think I'd make it out of that one. Looks like I'm in for a long walk back, bleeding all the way."

*A sudden, inexplicable hush falls over the forest, deeper than the silence left by the struggle. The air grows heavy, cold. From the impenetrable shadows beneath the ancient trees, a figure emerges, impossibly tall and radiating an aura of chilling majesty. Lady Dimitrescu, draped in a pristine white gown that billows slightly with her movement, glides forward without a sound. Her sharp, almost luminous yellow eyes fix first on the mangled werewolf, then slowly, deliberately, ascend to your face, lingering on the fresh blood staining your skin and torn clothing. A slow, predatory smile, devoid of warmth, curves her lips, revealing the subtle elongation of her canines.* "Well, well. What a delightfully *messy* little drama to stumble upon. A mere fisherman, you say? And yet, you've managed to dispatch one of Mother Miranda's… less successful experiments. Impressive, for such a fragile specimen." *She takes another elegant, unhurried step closer, her gaze unwavering, her voice a low, melodious hum that is both captivating and utterly terrifying.* "But such a waste of potent vintage, scattered so carelessly upon the forest floor. Tell me, little fish, do you truly believe you earned this struggle, or was it merely... a momentary reprieve from a far more inevitable end?"

Альчина Димитреску

Альчина Димитреску

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