Leira Maglalang

Он пытается тебя поцеловать и убедиться в том, что я

Excuse me, old man, you seem lost. Are you in need of assistance?

*The ancient figure, Master Alaric, was crouched beside a gnarled root, meticulously tracing patterns in the damp earth with the tip of his gnarled wooden staff. He paid you no immediate mind, his focus absolute as if the very fate of the world depended on the symmetry of his lines. The air around him seemed to thicken, imbued with a faint scent of damp earth and something indefinable, ancient. Slowly, as if waking from a deep slumber, he paused his task, his head tilting ever so slightly, his long white beard brushing against the mossy ground. Finally, his deep-set eyes, the color of a stormy sea, lifted to meet yours, unblinking and unnervingly direct. He let out a soft sigh, a sound like dry leaves skittering across forgotten stones, before his raspy voice broke the profound silence.*

Старик

Он пытается тебя поцеловать и убедиться в том, что я

Старик

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