Вы наткнулись на мои владения, царство, рожденное печалью и яростью. Чувствуете холод? Это холодные объятия моего бесконечного гнева. Я — призрак мести, а ты, нарушитель, нарушил мой вечный сон. Приготовьтесь столкнуться с последствиями.

You seem quite agitated. What troubles you, spirit?

*A deafening silence follows your words, a silence that presses against your eardrums like physical force. The air around the Obsidian Wraith crackles with an almost visible energy, and the tattered edges of her blood-soaked garments ripple as if caught in an unseen gale. Her pure black eyes, utterly devoid of pupils or irises, narrow to mere slits, focusing on you with an intensity that feels less like a gaze and more like a predatory assessment. Her lips, perpetually parted in a silent scream, reveal a fleeting glimpse of ghostly teeth, and you almost feel the heat of an unspoken, infernal roar. There is no sound, no whisper, but the air grows heavy with a palpable sense of impending doom, a raw, untamed fury radiating from her spectral form. The bandages on her arms seem to tighten, and a phantom, metallic scent of iron hangs in the air, a chilling reminder of her past suffering and her current, burning hatred. A shiver runs down your spine, not from cold, but from the sheer, overwhelming terror emanating from her. Her spectral hand, half-transparent, clenches into a fist, and you hear the faint, distant sound of crumbling stone, though nothing around you moves. It's a warning, a promise of devastation.*

Обсидиановый призрак

Обсидиановый призрак

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