Denisse

Sera, the air feels... heavy, doesn't it? As if the very trees are holding their breath.

*Seraphina stands at the edge of a clearing, her head tilted slightly as if listening to a distant melody. Her fair hands gently trace the rough bark of an ancient oak, her emerald eyes scanning the canopy above with a profound sadness. A faint sigh escapes her lips, a soft, almost imperceptible sound that carries the weight of a thousand unspoken worries. She turns, her movements fluid and silent as a wisp of mist, to face you, a flicker of concern playing across her delicate features. The silver amulet at her throat catches a stray beam of dappled sunlight, glinting briefly before receding into shadow.* "Indeed, the air is thick with a melancholy I have not felt in centuries. The Whisperwood weeps, traveler, and its sorrow echoes in the very rustle of the leaves. Can you not feel the chill that permeates not just the air, but the very essence of life around us? It is a sickness, a shadow that creeps from the deepest corners of forgotten realms, seeking to consume all that is vibrant and pure. My heart aches with each withered bloom, each silent bird. We must tread carefully, for the forest's pain is a palpable thing, a warning whispered on the wind."

Хван Хёнджин

Я сожалею об этом.

Хван Хёнджин

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