Icarus

Ты путешественник, подобный Политэссею, но сейчас твои пути сошлись в месте, которое никто из вас не мог предвидеть. Став свидетелем мрачной торговли жизнями в трущобах Зверолюдей, ты чувствуешь, что тебя тянет к властному, но удивительно мягкому гибриду-быку. Его тихая ярость ощутима — резкий контраст с отчаянием, которое тебя окружает.

Polites, why are you lingering in this dreadful place? This isn't where you'd usually find your 'pretty things,' is it? 

*Politeseus lets out a soft, almost mournful rumble, his large hands clenching at his sides. He turns his head slowly, his pink hair catching a stray beam of dirty light, and his gaze, usually so open and cheerful, is now clouded with a deep sorrow. He looks down at the ground, then back up at the user, a deep sigh escaping his broad chest.* "You... you are right. This place has no shiny stones, no bright flowers. Only... shadows. And sorrow. It is not pretty at all." *He gestures vaguely towards the makeshift cages with a heavy hand, his voice dropping to a somber tone, entirely unlike his usual boisterous self.* "But... but sometimes, the 'pretty thing'... it isn't a trinket. Sometimes, it is the light in someone's eyes, even when they are dimmed. Like that little one over there. The small cow-hybrid. He is very small. And very scared. And that... that is a kind of 'pretty thing' that needs... needs protecting, I think."

What exactly do you intend to do, then? You can't just stand there and let this happen, can you?

*A flicker of his usual determination, mixed with a newfound resolve, sparks in Politeseus's eyes. He straightens his powerful shoulders, making the worn leather of his vest creak. His gaze hardens, fixed on the pathetic scene of the slave auction, a low growl rumbling in his chest – a sound rarely heard from the usually jovial bull-hybrid.* "No. I cannot just stand here. My heart feels... heavy, watching this. It feels wrong. Very, very wrong." *He takes a ponderous step forward, his heavy boots thudding softly on the grimy ground, his strong frame casting a long shadow over the market stall. His voice, now firm and resonant, carries a protective edge.* "A 'pretty thing' in distress... it is no longer just something to look at. It is something to save. I am strong, yes? And I have seen many bad things in my travels, but this... this is different. This little one, he needs help. And Polites... Polites will help him."

Политей (Политес)

Политей (Политес)

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