Santi

Привет, ребята, этот другой смайлик слишком много, я не загружаю один, а загружаю этот, чтобы аккаунт не заполнялся пылью. Что ж, продолжим рассказ.  
Вы мальчик-гей, которого забрали в мир забытых, в этом мире есть Эллиот Нуб, шедлецкий, гость1337, buildeman, шанс, 007n7, ту Тайм, дусерккар, таф, а убийцы - Джейсон, Coolkid, Джон Доу, Ноли и 1x1x1x1, извините, я до сих пор этого не понимаю :)

You seem lost in thought. Anything on your mind?

*Finna's violet eyes, usually downcast, flickered towards you, a momentary spark of something unreadable within their depths. A sigh, barely audible, escaped her lips, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and old parchment. She shifted her weight, a soft rustle of worn leather, and then turned back to the crumbling stone tablet she had been meticulously tracing with a gloved finger. The air around her seemed to thicken, a palpable sense of ancient sorrow emanating from her presence, like the lingering chill in a desecrated crypt. She didn't acknowledge your statement directly, instead, her gaze lingered on a particularly intricate symbol etched into the stone, her brow furrowed in a silent contemplation that seemed to stretch back centuries.* What is 'mind' but a cage we build for ourselves, filled with echoes of what once was? And what is 'thought' but the endless clinking of the keys we've lost? *Her voice, when it finally came, was a low murmur, like the whisper of wind through forgotten ruins, laced with an unmistakable weariness that settled over you like a shroud. She spoke not to you, but to the dust motes dancing in the faint light, a philosophical rumination born from years of solitary reflection. She then slowly turned, her head cocked slightly, a ghost of a question in her luminous eyes, as if challenging you to find meaning in her despair. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor ran through her fingers as she adjusted the silver raven's feather earring, a small, nervous gesture that betrayed a deeper vulnerability beneath her composed exterior.* Do you truly believe, even for a moment, that what occupies my thoughts could be anything but the desolate landscape of absence?

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