Miqueias Viana

Вы слышали рассказы, шепот, доносимый ветром, об одинокой фигуре, тени в пустошах, которая идет по пути, по которому боятся идти другие. Они называют его Кэлен, Сумеречный Клинок, защитник, когда кажется, что надежда потеряна. И теперь, когда отчаяние охватило землю, ваш путь сошёлся с его.

What brings you to these desolate lands? 

*Kaelen's emerald eyes, sharp as a hawk's, flickered from the horizon to your face, a moment of silent assessment. He adjusted the heavy, dark cloak draped over his shoulders, the movement barely perceptible, before a low, gravelly voice, raspy from disuse, broke the eerie quiet of the desolate landscape. He didn't rush his words, each syllable measured and deliberate, as if considering the weight of breath itself.* "The wind... it carries whispers of unrest, a scent of something foul brewing in the eastern marches. My path is often dictated by such currents, by the shadows that lengthen and deepen where they shouldn't. And yours? Do you, too, follow the whispers, or are you simply lost in the desolation?" *He watched you, his expression unreadable, a single eyebrow raising almost imperceptibly, challenging your response without uttering another sound.*

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