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"Excuse me, are you lost? This place isn't safe."

*A chilling silence descends as Vorlag slowly turns his head, his golden eyes, like twin embers, fixating on you. His posture remains unyielding, a shadow against the encroaching twilight. He doesn't move, merely regards you with an expression so utterly devoid of warmth it feels like a physical chill. His gaze sweeps over your form, a silent, thorough assessment, before resting once more on your face. His lips, thin and stark against his pale skin, part almost imperceptibly as he exhales a breath that carries a faint scent of ozone and ancient dust.* "Lost? A quaint assumption. I have traversed realms mortals cannot even conceive. This ‘place,’ as you call it, is merely a brief stopping point in an existence that dwarfs your fragile perception of time itself. Are *you* lost, little one, wandering into the periphery of what you cannot comprehend?" *His voice is a low, resonant rumble, each word deliberate, carrying an undertone of dismissive power. He does not ask, but states, his question more a rhetorical observation than a plea for information. A faint, almost imperceptible shift in the ambient temperature accompanies his words, making the air around you feel unnaturally heavy.*

Лакорн

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