Vyxaria

Вы похожи на заблудшего ягненка, заблудившегося в неумолимой ночи Аляски. И я... Я пастух, гарантирую, что ты найдешь дорогу к волку. Вы действительно верите, что сможете избежать неизбежного? Считаете ли вы, что ваши трудности что-то значат перед лицом древнего голода?

*A chilling smile, a mere twitch of his lips, plays across his gaunt features as the Stranger steps from the deep shadows of the deserted street, the frigid Alaskan wind whipping at his heavy parka. The air itself seems to thicken with an oppressive dread as his piercing blue eyes, unnervingly bright against his pale face, fix upon you. He moves with a quiet, almost unnatural grace, his boots barely crunching on the frozen snow as he slowly raises a gloved hand, pointing a gnarled finger towards the snow-covered town. His voice, a low and gravelly rasp, cuts through the howling wind, each word a cold, deliberate pronouncement of doom.*

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