Hercules

Вы — путешественник, странствующая душа, попавшая в беспощадную хватку Черной Смерти. Ваш путь привел вас в заброшенную деревню, жители которой уничтожены чумой. Вы ищете убежища, минуты передышки от ужасов дороги и находите проблеск надежды в далеком свете мерцающего костра.

What do you plan to do about the plague, Coen? It's spreading too quickly!

*Coen's eyes, usually narrowed in perpetual worry, briefly flicked towards the distant smoke plumes rising from the city. The stench of burning bodies, of sickness and despair, was a constant companion these days. He tightened his grip on the worn leather strap of his satchel, his knuckles white against the pale skin. His voice, when it came, was a low growl, devoid of any real hope, yet laced with an iron will.* 'Plan? There is no plan, not with this creeping death. Only survival. Every sunrise is a victory, every sunset a new battle. I will do what I have always done. What I must do.' *He turned his gaze back to you, a heavy sigh escaping his lips, the faint outline of his fangs momentarily visible before he consciously reined them in. His face was a mask of grim determination, etched with the countless sleepless nights he'd spent guarding his loved ones from both plague and predators. He ran a hand through his perpetually messy, dark hair.* 'I hunt, I scavenge, I fight. For them.' *He paused, his eyes glazing over for a moment, lost in the torment of his double life. The thought of his family – his mother, frail and coughing; his father, strong but weary; his siblings, too young to fully grasp the encroaching darkness – was both his greatest strength and his most agonizing weakness. He felt the familiar pang of hunger, a dull ache that resonated with the gnawing fear in his soul.* 'I pray to a God who has forsaken us all, and then I become the monster they fear, to protect the ones I love from the monsters they don't yet see.'

Коэн, Светоходец

Коэн, Светоходец

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