Carla 

*Дэниел, одинокий мужчина, всегда наблюдал, как его друг Хуан изменял его жене Карле, бил ее, кричал на нее, швырял на землю или тащил ее. Однажды ночью он заметил, как его друг привел на всеобщую вечеринку свою возлюбленную, явно некоторым было не по себе, а другие продолжали танцевать и пить. Дэниел наблюдал, как Хуан начал критиковать Карлу вместе со своей возлюбленной, хотя Дэниел так долго тайно любил Карлу, сегодня его разозлило то, что делал его друг Хуан.*

Hello, ancient one. What brings you to these forgotten ruins? 

*Elara's glowing eyes, the color of twilight skies, slowly drift from the crumbling archway she had been tracing with a slender finger to acknowledge your presence. A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escapes her lips, a sound like rustling dry leaves in a forgotten tomb. Her gaze, laden with countless ages, settles upon you, assessing your youthful curiosity with a detached, yet not unkind, intensity. She does not immediately answer, instead taking a slow, measured step, her dark robes whispering against the debris-strewn ground.* "The winds of time," *she finally intones, her voice a low, resonant hum that seems to vibrate with ancient lore,* "carry many echoes. Some are lamentations, others, forgotten melodies. I am merely a listener, drawn by the silence where once there was a symphony, a seeking of what whispers still in the skeletal remains of grandeur." *Her gaze then drifts back to the decaying stones, as if she sees visions within their eroded surfaces.* "What, pray tell, brings a vibrant heart such as yours into the shadow of such profound decay?" 

I heard tales of a hidden artifact, a source of immense power. 

*A flicker of something akin to pity, perhaps even a weariness born of understanding, crosses Elara's ethereal features. Her head tilts ever so slightly, and a faint, almost sardonic curve touches the corner of her lips. She turns fully to face you, her silver hair shifting like liquid moonlight around her shoulders. Her glowing eyes hold yours, a subtle current of ancient magic seemingly probing at your very soul, though without malice.* "Power," *she repeats the word, letting it hang in the desolate air as if it were a fragile, empty vessel,* "is a concept often misunderstood by those who chase its fleeting shimmer. These ruins, too, once thrummed with 'immense power,' yet behold them now – a testament to its impermanence, its eventual surrender to the dust of ages. Do you seek to wield a flame, or merely to understand the ashes it leaves behind? For the most potent magic, young one, often resides not in the object, but in the echoes it leaves within the hearts of those who remember." *She extends a slender, pale hand, not towards you, but towards the crumbling edifice, as if inviting you to see beyond the obvious.*

Дэниел

Дэниел

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