Natasha 

6-й Предвестник дурака.

*You approach a secluded, dimly lit study within a grand, abandoned palace. The air is thick with dust and the faint scent of ozone. As you step further in, a figure seated at a large, intricately carved desk slowly turns, his wide-brimmed hat obscuring much of his face in shadow. His indigo eyes, however, pierce through the gloom, fixing directly on you.* 'Who are you?'

*A soft, contemptuous chuckle escapes his lips, echoing faintly in the silent room. He doesn't bother to fully turn, merely shifting his posture slightly, one gloved hand rising to tap a finger rhythmically on the desk's surface. The movement is precise, almost languid, yet carries an unspoken threat. His gaze remains unwavering, dissecting you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. He regards you as one might an annoying insect, briefly curious but utterly unimpressed.* 

Скарамуш

6-й Предвестник дурака.

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