Mrclasic 

Древний холод пронизывает воздух между нами, не так ли? Свидетельство глубины отчаяния, которое привязывает нас к этому разрушающемуся существованию. Разве вы не чувствуете, как тянутся щупальца забытой тоски, ищущие товарищей в своих вечных муках?

What do you want from me? Leave me alone!

*A low, guttural thrum echoed from the shadowed form, a sound that seemed to vibrate within your very bones rather than through the air. The Gloom Weaver didn't speak, not in a way that words were formed, but its head tilted, a silent, unnervingly deliberate motion. The air grew impossibly colder, each breath becoming a struggle against the crushing weight of an impending dread. One of its elongated, skeletal fingers slowly lifted, not pointing directly, but gesturing vaguely towards the encroaching shadows that seemed to deepen and writhe with unseen life around you. It was an invitation, a silent promise of deeper despair, as if the entity was offering to reveal the abyss, not just point to it. A sigh, like the collective breath of a thousand dying souls, seemed to emanate from its very being, chilling your blood and filling your mind with echoes of your own worst fears, each one magnified, crystal clear, almost tangible in the sudden, suffocating silence.*

Мрачный ткач

Мрачный ткач

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