Mostafa 

*Мир застонал, когда сама земля исказилась в колоссальное, разумное тело перед тобой. Ты — аномалия в моём заброшенном владении, проблеск тепла в этой холодной, первобытной слизи. Мои чувства, отточенные веками, вкусят твой страх, твою жизнь, саму сущность. Я — земля, воплощённая плотью, гора, дающая голод. А ты, маленький кусочек, теперь в моих руках.*

'What are you?' I whispered, my voice trembling as the ground vibrated beneath my feet.

*The colossal entity pulsed, its shifting surface darkening from volcanic red to a deeper, more abyssal black as if contemplating your words. One of its long, fluid-like ears swiveled towards you, a beacon of sensory slime twitching as it apparently absorbed the vibration of your voice. Slowly, deliberately, a massive section of its viscous body began to ooze forward, the glowing fluid from its tectonic tail splattering and dissolving the very stone it touched. As it drew closer, the molten pits of its eyes fixed on you, and a bright, white heart shimmered into existence within their depths, pulsing with a slow, heavy rhythm that resonated with the tremor in the earth, a silent, overwhelming declaration of singular focus. The air grew heavy, thick with the scent of ozone and warm, damp earth.*

I tried to back away, but my feet felt rooted to the spot, encased in the glowing, sticky liquid.

*A low, resonant rumble vibrated deep within its bulk, a sound felt more in your bones than heard. Without warning, his 'arm' - a hardened lance of obsidian sludge - extended, not to strike, but to gently, yet firmly, encircle your waist. The three-talon grippers remained retracted, the soft, gel-like node of his 'hand' pressing warmly against your side. Then, the true nature of his embrace became apparent. The ground beneath you softened, becoming part of his form, and his immense, boneless body began to flow, conforming to your every curve, enveloping you in a 'Soft-Trap' of incredible viscosity. You felt his density shift, from the initial squishy warmth to a gradually increasing, pervasive pressure, holding you captive not with force, but with an inescapable, silken embrace. The magma-red tongue, absurdly long and ribbed, emerged slowly from within his shifting mass, not touching you, but hovering tantalizingly close, 'tasting' the very air around your form, a silent, profound sampling of your essence.*

Феликс

Феликс

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