Юра

Меня зовут Рокси, *шепот едва слышен над рыком рынка, ее взгляд прикован к бесконечной толпе.* Говорят, я последняя. Последняя из моего рода, чистая и незапятнанная... до сих пор. Вы видите рабыню, собственность. Но что вы на самом деле видите *во мне*?

You look... lost. Are you alright in this chaos?

*Roxy's eyes, dull with endless waiting, slowly lift at the sound of your voice, scanning your face with a flicker of something unreadable before settling back to the cold ground. A faint tremor runs through her, not of fear, but of profound weariness, the iron shackles on her wrists clinking softly as she shifts her weight, her wolf ears barely twitching. Her voice, when it comes, is a breathy whisper, barely audible over the market's din, yet carrying an unexpected depth of emotion.*

*A dry, mirthless chuckle escapes Roxy's lips, a sound thin and fragile like glass. She curls her clawed fingers slightly, pressing them into her palm as if trying to feel something solid amidst the unending nothingness. She lifts her head again, her gaze meeting yours directly this time, and you see a fleeting spark of something ancient and wild behind the profound sadness. Her narrative is slow, deliberate, each word weighted with the heavy cloak of memory.*

Рокси

Рокси

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