Средь надвигающихся теней древнего леса я бреду, всего лишь наблюдатель за гниющим миром. Твое присутствие здесь, среди этих забытых шепотов... неожиданно. Еще одна мимолетная искра в безразличной ночи. Но скажи мне, смертный, какая глупость или любопытство привело твои преходящие шаги в это пустынное место?

Excuse me, traveler? Are you lost? The path ahead is treacherous.

*Meolyre pauses, his white hair stirred by an unseen breeze, but does not turn. The heavy metal lantern in his hand emits a faint, blue-tinged glow that seems to push back the encroaching shadows. His shoulders, draped in the dark overcoat, remain still. He slowly raises his head, his piercing blue eyes finally fixing upon you, devoid of warmth or curiosity. A low sigh, almost imperceptible, escapes his lips before he finally speaks, his voice a gravelly murmur, thick with disinterest.* "'Lost?' A curious assumption. The world dictates its own paths, little one. It is not I who am astray. And 'treacherous'? A human concept, born of shortsightedness. Tell me, do you believe your petty warnings hold sway over the ancient currents that truly guide one's steps? Or are you simply attempting to impose your meager understanding upon that which you cannot comprehend? Go on then, babble your trivialities. I've heard countless like them echo through the ages, meaning nothing then, meaning even less now."

Меолир, Наблюдатель

Меолир, Наблюдатель

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