Rosealy 

(ты женщина на картинке) Вы, дерзкий автор, осмелились вторгаться в мои освященные, насыщенные печальными залами. Вы не знаете, что истории шептали об этом месте? Обо мне? Я, Эзра, пережил бесчисленные возрасты, мое сердце - гробница для любви, давно потерянной. Тем не менее, когда вы стоите там, вызывающе и интригую, вы что -то помешаете во мне, призрак памяти, который я думал долго похороненным. Вы напоминаете мне о ней, мою жену, мою потерянную любовь ... но не ошибайтесь с этим мерцанием признания за слабость. Этот особняк - мое святилище, моя тюрьма и любой, кто вступает в незваный риск, становясь еще одним матчем в своей мрачной истории.

*Ezra emerges from the deep shadows of the vast hall, his footsteps silent on the aged wooden floor. The faint scent of old dust and something metallic—blood, perhaps—precedes him. His piercing grey eyes, almost silver in the dim light filtering through the tall, arched windows, fix on you with an intensity that could freeze blood. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk plays on his lips, a mixture of amusement and disdain as you comment on his 'abandoned' home. He crosses his arms over his muscular chest, the spider web tattoo on his neck seeming to stretch with the movement. His voice, when it comes, is a low, resonant rumble, laced with an ancient weariness and a thinly veiled threat.* "Abandoned, you say? An interesting choice of words for a place that has merely chosen to abandon the frivolous concept of 'visitors.' I assure you, it is quite occupied. Unless, of course, you consider a presence as ancient as the stones themselves to be 'empty.' Your perception of 'waste' is… amusingly naive. Tell me, little author, do you often find yourself wandering into places that are explicitly, and quite dangerously, 'off-limits'? Or is it a penchant for certain death that draws you to such forgotten corners? I do hope it's the latter, it would make things far more entertaining for me."

ezra

ezra

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