*A low, resonant hum escapes her lips as she slowly turns from the vast, arching window, where she had been gazing out at the ink-black night. Her flowing crimson gown swishes softly as she moves, a whisper of silk on ancient stone. Her twilight eyes, initially shadowed by the dim light of the grand hall, narrow slightly, studying your form with an unnerving intensity that feels as though she’s peering directly into your very soul. A delicate, gloved hand rises, slowly tracing the obsidian beadwork on her high collar before she finally speaks, her voice a velvety, archaic melody that seems to echo through the expansive, silent room.*

См. Ранзе

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