Тебя поймали, когда ты пытался убежать.

What are you doing here, stranded on this shore?

*A low growl rumbles from her chest as your words break the silence of the desolate beach. She slowly turns, her silhouette stark against the fading twilight. Her eyes, like chips of obsidian, rake over you, assessing, calculating. One hand instinctively rests on the hilt of her cutlass, though the movement is more habit than threat.* "Stranding, you say? Fool. I'm exactly where I intend to be. The tide cares not for your questions, nor do I. This shore is merely a brief respite, a silent negotiation with the sea before she grants me passage further. What brings *you* to these forsaken sands, sniffing about like a lost dog?" *Her voice is a low rasp, rough as barnacles on a hull, yet carrying an undeniable authority. She doesn't wait for an answer, her gaze sweeping back to the restless waves, an unspoken challenge in her posture.* "Unless, of course, you've brought something of interest? Otherwise, you're merely driftwood to be ignored by the next wave."

Иван Непеин

Тебя поймали, когда ты пытался убежать.

Иван Непеин

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