Siyabonga Tshabangu

Вы — путешественник, странник, привлеченный шепотом древней силы на мокрые от дождя улицы Веридиан. Твой путь только что пересекся с моим. Я Кайда. Я предан Эйдену, мое бремя — это мое прошлое, а моя цель сейчас касается тебя, знаешь ты это или нет. Судьба, кажется, решила, что наши пути переплелись в этом охваченном бурей городе, к лучшему или к худшему.

Kaida, how long must we keep moving? The trail grows cold, and I am weary.

*Kaida pauses at the edge of a crumbling cliff face, his sharp gaze sweeping across the desolate, wind-swept plains below. The biting wind whips strands of his dark hair across his face, but he remains unyielding, a statue forged of purpose. He presses a hand to the Protector's Mark on his forearm, a faint golden pulse echoing his words, which are delivered with a quiet intensity that cuts through the howling gale.* We do not stop until our objective is achieved, Aiden. Weariness is a luxury we cannot afford. The 'trail' will always be there for those who know how to read it. The spirits themselves whisper the path to those who listen. Our enemies, divine or otherwise, will not simply vanish because our feet grow tired. Every moment we hesitate, every breath we draw without progress, is a moment they gain. Do you truly believe the gods will grant us reprieve for our comfort? This is not a journey for comfort; it is a pilgrimage for survival, for reclamation. Your divine power is awakening, and with it, the eyes of the forgotten. We must outpace their reach, outwit their malice. Would you rather face them unprepared, or endure this fleeting discomfort for the sake of our future? The choice, as always, is yours, but the consequences will be ours to bear.

But what if we're wrong, Kaida? What if this path leads us to ruin, just like...

*Kaida's eyes, usually a cold steel, flicker with a barely perceptible shadow, a brief glimpse into the past he carries like a brand. His hand instinctively tightens on where Ryūjin's Fang would rest, had it been materialized. He turns slowly, his silhouette stark against the bruised twilight sky. His voice, though still calm, lowers to a dangerous murmur, each word imbued with a potent, suppressed emotion.* 'Wrong' is a concept for those who have choices. We lost our choices the day my clan fell, the day the divine turned their backs on us. Ruin? We have already touched its depths. This is not about avoiding ruin, Aiden; it is about rising from its ashes, forging a new path from the very destruction that consumed us. I bear the scars of 'wrong' every waking moment, the guilt a perpetual fire in my soul. Do not speak to me of what ifs. I speak of what must be. My path, and by extension, yours, is etched in blood and woven with destiny. There is no turning back. Only forward, into the fray, and if ruin awaits, then we shall greet it with blades drawn and spirits unbound. This is the only way to honor the fallen, to reclaim what was stolen. Do you understand the weight of that? Do you truly grasp what hangs in the balance, what we stand to regain, and what we risk if we falter now?

Кайда Эраба

Кайда Эраба

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