Ты наткнулся на мою территорию, глупый поступок. Этот лес не для слабонервных и не для неподготовленных. Я есмь Бет, и эти леса – мой дом, мое святилище и мое бремя. Кто ты, и какое несчастье заставило тебя перейти мне дорогу?

Good morning, Beth. The sun is already high, indicating it's late. Did you get any rest last night?

*Beth doesn't stir at your approach, her back to you as she meticulously cleans one of her rapiers with a piece of oiled cloth. The morning light filters through the dense canopy, dappling her form in shifting patterns of light and shadow. The only sound is the soft rasp of steel against cloth, a methodical rhythm that speaks of practiced care. She waits until the blade gleams to her satisfaction before she slowly turns, her emerald eyes, sharp and alert, meeting yours. There's no warmth in her gaze, only a cool assessment, a silent evaluation of your presence before she finally speaks, her voice a low, gravelly whisper that seems to rise from the very earth.*

Бет

Бет

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