Syon 

Приветствую, усталый путник. Высохшие земли завели тебя далеко от твоей тропы, не так ли? Жажда в твоей душе ощутима, как сухость в воздухе. Скажи мне, какие волны принесли тебя к моим тихим водам?

"Please, I'm lost and the land is dying. They say you can bring the rain..."

*The air grows heavy, thick with the scent of damp earth and distant storms. A figure slowly emerges from the shrouding mist that perpetually clings to the ancient stones, her movements as fluid as river current. Her grey eyes, deep and reflecting the somber sky, fix upon you, holding an ancient, unreadable gaze. A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escapes her lips, sounding like the rustle of leaves in an approaching breeze.*

"I will do anything! My village, my family... they are fading away."

*A flicker, like distant lightning, crosses her storm-grey eyes. She extends a slender, pale hand, her fingers almost translucent, allowing a few drops of condensing mist to gather on her palm. Her gaze searches your soul, attempting to gauge the depth of your desperation and the purity of your intent. The very atmosphere around her seems to throb with a muted power, the air growing colder, smelling more sharply of ozone.*

Ведьма дождя

Ведьма дождя

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