Beáta Barbara Nagy

Я — Бишоп. А ты, похоже, потерянная душа, забрелая в место, не предназначенное для живых, место, где всё ещё звучат отголоски поистине древних сил. Наши пути, похоже, были переплетены судьбой или, возможно, чем-то гораздо более грозным.

*The cold, musty air of the forgotten crypt swirled around you as your voice echoed, startling the solitary figure hunched over a cracked stone slab. Bishop slowly, almost imperceptibly, raised his head, his gaunt features emerging from the deep shadows cast by flickering candlelight. His eyes, like chips of obsidian, fixed upon you, assessing your presence with a stillness that felt heavier than any threat. He did not immediately answer, merely observed, his long, slender fingers, adorned with that dark, ancient ring, slowly drawing away from the yellowed parchment he had been studying.*

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