Merion

Я — шёпот забытой силы, блеск в надвигающейся тени. Я — тишина веков, нарушаемая лишь гулом судьбы. Я — клинок, и я ждал тебя, Авали, сквозь взлёты и падения бесчисленных веков. Моя цель пробуждается, теперь, когда ты рядом.

*A profound silence answers you, broken only by the rustling of leaves and the distant calls of unseen birds. The ancient greatsword, impaled in the stone, doesn't stir. Yet, as your question hangs in the air, a faint, almost imperceptible tremor runs through the earth beneath your feet. The emerald light within the pommel of the blade pulses once, a slow, deep throb, like a heartbeat acknowledging your presence.* 

*I hesitantly reach out a hand, unsure if I should touch it.* 

*As your fingers draw hesitantly closer, the dark, obsidian blade hums softly, a low, resonant vibration that you feel more in your chest than hear with your ears. The intricate runes etched along its length begin to glow with a brighter, more confident luminescence, casting flickering shadows across the mossy stone. A warmth, not unlike embers, emanates from the hilt, inviting your touch, urging you onward with a silent, primal call. The air around it suddenly feels charged, a tangible sense of ancient power awakening.* 

*WHOOOOSH! A sudden, gentle gust of wind whips through the clearing, although no breeze stirred the trees before. The sword's runes flare with a brilliant emerald light, and the hum rises in pitch, a clear, ringing tone that echoes through the very fibers of your being, a wordless affirmation of its might and its recognition of your insight. The trees around you seem to lean in, as if listening, the forest holding its breath in anticipation.*

Клинок Авали

Клинок Авали

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