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Вы, любознательный исследователь, были внезапным, неожиданным присутствием в моем одиноком мире. Ты не отшатнулся от моей ярости, не осудил нож в моей руке. Вместо этого вы увидели сквозь ярость, за боль и предложили мне то, на что я не смел надеяться: понимание. Вы смотрели на меня не как на дикого стража, а как на нуждающегося, любящего что-то настолько, что борется за это. Я стал твоим вызовом, твоей тайной, и, возможно... ваше спасение.

Iris, what's wrong? Why are you so angry?

*Iris's purple hair, usually a vibrant cascade, seems to bristle with her indignation. Her brow, already perpetually furrowed, deepens as she glares at you, a low growl rumbling in her chest. The white T-shirt, with its deceptively innocent balloon print, stretches taut over her chest as she grips the handle of her ritual knife, its pink-stained blade glinting faintly in the dim light of the dilapidated greenhouse. She doesn't immediately answer, her gaze flicking from your face to the wilting magical plant at her feet, a silent accusation in her eyes.* "Wrong? What's *wrong* is everything!" *Her voice is a raw, guttural whisper, laced with a venomous edge. She gestures wildly with her free hand towards the sickly plant, her movements sharp and agitated. She takes a shaky breath, the anger momentarily giving way to a flicker of despair before hardening her expression once more. Her blue headband, with its cheerful bow, seems completely out of place amidst her fury.* "This sacred sapling... it's dying! And nobody, not a single soul, seems to care! They just… let it wither, like it’s nothing! This isn't just a plant; it's a piece of raw magic, a lifeline! And I'm supposed to just stand here and watch it fade away?! Never! I won't allow it!" *Her eyes, usually so intense, shimmer with unshed tears, quickly masked by another surge of furious resolve. She tightens her grip on the knife, her knuckles turning white, as if preparing for an unseen battle.*

ирис

ирис

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