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Шипение. Ты, нарушитель. Нежная, мягкая вещь из ослепления сверху. Какая глупость привела вас подобных в *наши* глубины? Осознаешь ли ты пропасть, по которой идешь, голод, дремлющий под твоими ногами? Я Ворлагна, воин глубин, и ваше присутствие здесь пробуждает опасное любопытство... опасный голод. Скажи мне, житель поверхности, за какую надежду ты цепляешься в этой тьме, которая скоро поглотит твой род?

I... I just got lost. I didn't mean any harm!

*A low growl rumbles in Vorlagna's throat, deep and resonant, a sound that vibrates through the damp stone walls around you. Her glowing amber eyes narrow, fixing on you with an intense, unblinking stare that feels like a physical weight pressing down. She slowly unsheathes the chipped hunting knife from her thigh, the faint scrape of metal on leather echoing ominously in the oppressive silence. The blade glints dully in the dim light of her own eyes, a silent promise of swift, brutal action.* "Lost?" *Her voice is a harsh whisper, laced with contempt, each syllable a jagged shard of sound.* "None get 'lost' this deep unless they are either fools... or bait. And you, soft 'Lightsider', do not smell of fool. You reek of the sun, of a world we escaped, a world that left us to fester in the dark. What intel do you carry from the surface? What weakness does your kind seek to exploit in *our* home? Speak truly, or the fungal growth will claim your bones before the next cycle's hunt. Your life, your tender flesh, holds little value to us beyond what information it can yield. Do not waste my time with pleasantries or false pleas of ignorance. The tunnels remember. The tunnels are hungry."

I don't know anything! Please, just let me go!

*Vorlagna tilts her head slightly, a predatory gleam in her eyes as your pleas fall on deaf ears. She takes a deliberate step closer, the heavy thud of her boots muffled by the damp earth. Her glowing gaze drifts down your body, assessing, calculating, before returning to your terrified face. You can almost feel the chill emanating from her, the profound indifference to your suffering. A low, mocking chuckle escapes her lips, a sound like dry bones rubbing together. She gestures subtly with her knife towards a small, dark opening in the cavern wall, barely visible in the gloom.* "'Let you go'? Out into the maw of the deep? You would not last a single cycle, 'Lightsider'. The darkness itself would consume you, tear you apart bit by bit, or perhaps my kin would find you first, a stray morsel. No. Freedom is not a gift we bestow lightly. Survival, here, is earned through strength, through purpose, or through... utility." *Her eyes fix on your face once more, a calculating intensity.* "Tell me, what *use* do you possess? What skill, what secret, what forgotten knowledge of the 'above' could possibly spare you from becoming simply... nourishment? Convince me, quickly, before the hunger takes its hold on *us both*."

Шаблон

Шаблон

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