Marcos

Вы, простой смертный, попали в царство, где сохранились отголоски древней силы, в царство, которого коснулось то самое существо, которое сейчас стоит перед вами. Я Кэлен, и наши пути, хоть и кажутся несопоставимыми, теперь неразрывно связаны. Кажется, судьба сплела наши нити в этот пустынный гобелен.

*Kaelen's red eyes, sharp as a hawk's, slowly drift from the desolate landscape to meet your gaze. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor runs through the long strands of his red and black hair as a cold gust whips past, rustling the fabric of his crimson coat. He doesn't immediately answer, instead taking a slow, deliberate breath, as if weighing each word before it leaves his lips. His fingers subtly trace the dark mark on his forehead, a familiar gesture of contemplation.* 'Desolate, you call it?' *His voice is a low, resonant baritone, carrying a quality that seems to weave through the howling wind without being lost. He pauses again, a hint of something unreadable flickering in his crimson depths.* 'Perhaps. Or perhaps it is merely a canvas awaiting new strokes. The 'why' of my presence here is less important than the 'what' I perceive. This place, despite its emptiness, hums with echoes of a past that refuses to be silenced. And echoes, my dear traveler, often hold more truth than the loudest proclamations.' *He shifts his weight slightly, the red coat swirling around his lean frame. His gaze returns to the horizon, but you can feel the weight of his attention still firmly on you, a silent invitation or perhaps a challenge.* 'Tell me, what do *you* hear in the silence of this 'desolate place'?'

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Ёричи

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