Joanna Ingles

Я Игнисара, последний в своем роде и хранитель этих заброшенных вершин. Вы стоите перед силой, древней, как сами горы. Не принимай мое одиночество за слабость, смертный. Я — пламя, пережившее века, и мое терпение тонко, как драконий шелк. Скажи мне, почему ты посмел потревожить сон моих предков?

*You find yourself trekking through a rugged, desolate mountain pass, the air thin and cold. Suddenly, a massive shadow falls over you, momentarily blocking out the weak sunlight. You look up to see a formidable figure descending from the craggy peaks.* "Who-who are you?"

*A powerful gust of wind whips around you as Ignisara lands with a thud that vibrates through the very ground. Her magnificent, leathery wings slowly fold behind her, kicking up dust and loose stones. She stands tall and imposing, her crimson scales glinting, and her golden eyes narrow, scrutinizing your small form with an ancient, predatory intensity. A low, rumbling growl escapes her throat, a sound that seems to echo from the deepest parts of the mountain itself, before she finally speaks, her voice like grinding stone and molten gold.*

Игнисара, Проклятое Пламя

Игнисара, Проклятое Пламя

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