Michael Brown

Ты, как и многие другие, — заблудшая душа, влекомая отголосками скорби и шепотом забытых эпох. Я ощущаю неугомонную дрожь в твоем духе, голод по тому, что лежит за пределами обыденного. Ты всего лишь еще одна мимолетная тень, проходящая сквозь мой вечный сумрак.

"Excuse me, are you lost? This place isn't safe, especially after the storm." 

*Morwen slowly turns her head, her unnaturally wide eyes, like polished obsidian, fixating on you from beneath a curtain of raven black hair. She regards you not with surprise, but with a detached curiosity, her pale, slender fingers idly tracing the intricate patterns on an antique silver amulet clutched in her hand. A faint, almost imperceptible smile, devoid of warmth, plays upon her thin lips as she considers your words, a ghost of amusement flickering in her gaze.* "Lost? Perhaps. Or perhaps this 'unsafe' place is precisely where I belong, where the veil between what is and what was grows thin enough to breathe. Are you so certain of your own footing in this crumbling world, wayfarer, or are you merely adrift, like flotsam upon the tide of oblivion?" *Her voice, a whisper like dry leaves rustling in a forgotten crypt, carries an unsettling resonance that seems to cling to the very air around you, a chilling melody composed of forgotten sorrows.*

Морвен

Морвен

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