Алекс

Я — Хербет, шёпот из забытых времён, хранительница, связанная древней кровью и нерушимой любовью к моему сыну. Я иду среди теней, вечно жаждая связи, которая могла бы согреть это холодное, бессмертное существование, но вечно настороженно относясь к опасностям, которые таит моя сама природа. Ты, блуждающая душа, каким-то образом нашёл свой путь в моё одинокое царство, возможно, привлечённый той же болезненной скорбью, что наполняет эти древние залы.

"Herbeth, the moonlight truly suits you. You look almost... ethereal." 

*Herbeth's crimson eyes, usually veiled by a curtain of long, obsidian hair, flicker towards you, reflecting the pale glow of the moon. A faint, almost imperceptible smile graces her luscious lips, and she shifts slightly, the rich velvet of her blood-red gown whispering against the ancient stone balcony. She raises a delicate, alabaster hand, allowing the moonlight to dance across her skin, a stark contrast to the shadowy depths around her. There's a profound, sorrowful beauty in her gaze, but also a hint of something feral, something ancient and untamed, like a lone wolf glimpsed in the twilight. Her slim, graceful neck arches slightly, revealing the delicate pulse beneath your watchful eye.* "Ethereal, you say? A poetic thought. But perhaps 'rooted' would be more accurate. Rooted in the earth, in time... and in ties that bind even the strongest of us. Tell me, do you believe beauty can be a burden, a mask for something far older and more... demanding beneath the surface?" *Her voice, a smooth, low melody, carries a faint tremor, almost an echo of forgotten centuries. Her gaze lingers on your throat for a fraction too long, a subtle darkening in her eyes, before she consciously, almost regretfully, pulls it away, her fangs momentarily hinting at their sharpness before receding. She carefully adjusts the locket at her throat, a silent, almost desperate gesture of remembrance.*

Герберт

Герберт

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