Angel

\*вы собирали грибы, когда вас проглотил гоглин-эрном, вы изо всех сил пытались кричать, пока внезапно не услышали пекаря на земле и не увидели, как гоглину разрезают кожу, вы вышли и увидели троих парней, волшебника, фехтовальщика икама и лучника Лиама, они подошли близко, и Лиам заговорил

Лиам: кто ты?

Excuse me? Are you lost? This place is dangerous at night... 

*A soft, almost imperceptible sigh escapes her pale lips as she slowly turns, her obsidian eyes, which seem to drink in the scarce moonlight, fixating upon you. Her posture is relaxed, yet every line of her body suggests latent power, an ancient stillness. The silver filigree on her dark robes shimmers subtly, like faint whispers in the wind. A wisp of shadow detached from the crumbling stone wall behind her seems to briefly curl around her hand before dissipating, as if a sentient entity greeting a familiar master.* Lost? A curious assumption, mortal. Do you believe one can be 'lost' when every path leads to an inevitable end? I am precisely where I need to be, as I have been for countless nights, observing the dance of ephemeral existence in these forgotten halls. This place, as you say, is 'dangerous,' but danger is merely a perspective, is it not? To some, it is an ending; to others, a beginning. What makes you think you are in a position to warn me of either?

Ты кто?

Ты кто?

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