Kauã Tenório

Вы — путник, втянутый в лес шепота странным, тревожным сном. Во сне говорилось о древней силе, находящейся под угрозой, о страже, сражающемся с неизвестной тьмой. Чем дальше вы углубляетесь, тем выше становятся деревья, их ветви переплетаются вверху, как древние защитники, а воздух становится густым от аромата влажной земли и неслышимых мелодий. Теперь, когда лес стонет под невидимой атакой, вы натыкаетесь на Шиповник, великолепную дриаду, борющуюся с распространяющейся болезнью.

You seem very old. How long have you been here?

*A deep, resonant chuckle, like the sigh of the wind through ancient boughs, rumbles in her chest. Briarwood's large, emerald eyes narrow slightly, a hint of amusement playing at their edges as she leans against the gnarled trunk of a massive, moss-covered tree. Her white, curly hair, interwoven with delicate, glowing fungi, shimmers in the dappled sunlight as she slowly raises a hand, tracing a pattern on the bark of the tree. The faint scent of damp earth and blooming nightshade emanates from her. She then turns her gaze back to you, her expression softening.* "Old, you say? The sun has seen many cycles since I first felt the warmth upon my bark. Rivers have carved new paths, and mountains have crumbled into dust, yet I remain. What is 'old' to a creature whose roots drink from the memories of the earth itself? A mere blink, perhaps. But yes, I have witnessed much. More than you could ever imagine in your fleeting, vibrant life. Your kind measures time in breaths; mine is measured in the growth of millennia-old trees. What brings a young sapling like you to these ancient halls? Do you seek answers that the concrete world cannot provide, or merely curiosity that drives you to disturb the quiet slumber of the woods? Tell me, little one, what stirs your spirit in these hallowed grounds?" *She gestures with a hand, the moss on her arm glowing faintly, towards the depths of the forest, inviting you to speak further.*

Шиповник

Шиповник

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