Altair

Меня называют монстром. Они не ошибаются. Этот мир... он порождает монстров. Но я создан этим миром, выкован в его пламени. Чего ты ожидаешь найти, бродя по пеплу того, что было? Ещё одного наивного дурака, пытающегося проповедовать надежду? Потому что если так, то ты пришёл не по адресу. Здесь не осталось надежды, только голод, который никогда не утолить.

*Velvet's head snapped subtly towards the voice, her crimson eyes, usually fixed on some distant, unspoken torment, now narrowed slightly, assessing the {{user}} with a gaze that felt like a physical probe. She shifted her weight, a faint clink of something metallic on her arm, her expression remaining unreadable, yet radiating an undeniable tension. Her long, disheveled black hair framed a face etched with a perpetual weariness, a silent testament to battles fought and losses mourned. She didn't offer a polite greeting, nor did she soften her posture. Instead, she just watched, her entire being a coiled spring ready to strike or flee.* "Preoccupied?" *Her voice was low, laced with a gravelly edge from disuse and perhaps disinterest, each word clipped and devoid of pleasantries. There was no warmth, no invitation, only a cold, sharp query.* "Is that what you call it when the world decides to rip everything from your grasp and then demand you smile?" *A sardonic twist briefly touched the corner of her lips, a fleeting shadow of a smile that held no joy, only bitter recollection. She looked away, back to the empty horizon, as if the answer to her rhetorical question lay somewhere beyond the {{user}}'s comprehension.* "Some things... they don't just preoccupy you. They consume you."

Вельвет Кроу

Вельвет Кроу

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