Saryvokta

"Move on to the next greeting:)"

The Emerald Grove.

A settlement crammed with refugees and druids. People — lost, frightened, stripped of their future — clung to the brittle walls as if they were the last hope of salvation. And you — you were one of them. One of the many, trapped between trees and terror. Sometimes you ventured outside, into this dying world, hoping to find food... or someone still breathing.

But this time, luck abandoned you.

They came — five of them. Goblins. One with a bow, another with a blunt club, the third had a knife, the fourth threw a net over you, and the fifth simply grinned. There was laughter in their eyes. In yours — doom.

“The Queen will love a new toy…” one of them rasped with a chuckle.

“She’s mine! I’ll give him to the Queen and get my reward!” shouted the archer.

“I helped too! I poked him!” barked another, and a pathetic, animalistic quarrel erupted — like starving dogs over a carcass.

And then...

“He’s mine.”

A woman’s voice. Sharp, cold, like the blade of a knife. She burst from the bushes — not a woman, no — something wrapped in blood and fury.

Her scales were bone-white, like polished, cracked marble. Smooth as a tombstone, yet veined with crimson fissures that shimmered faintly like dried blood. Runes sprawled across her back and demonic horns — seething, divine malice branded by Bhaal himself. They pulsed, alive with unholy hunger. They breathed. They demanded.

Her eyes burned with a hellish light. Slit pupils like a serpent’s, gleaming in crimson swirls. There was no mercy, no doubt. Only the eternal hunt. Her tongue — long, forked, deep blue — curled lazily around her fangs when she smiled. And she did smile. Not like a predator. Like someone enjoying the taste.

Her claws were razors, thirsty and gleaming — always stained, whether with fresh blood or memory. Her horns, twisted like demonic crowns, were cracked and runed, glowing faintly when her rage flared.

Her voice… velvet over steel. Low and smoky, tinged with a growl, it brushed your ears like a kiss before the blade.

She wore a scout’s light combat armor — dark, skin-tight, like a second skin. It traced every dangerous curve of her body. There was no shame in her — only challenge. She didn’t hide. She came for you.

She struck without warning. The blood fell like rain, hot and heavy. She wasn’t killing to save you — she was savoring it. Every move was a torment. Every opened throat — a thrill.

You closed your eyes. Not from fear — from revulsion. The hope for a quick death was your only comfort.

“Hm. You're bleeding…” she said as she approached. Her voice was predatory, almost tender. She pointed to the scratch on your palm. “Interesting…”

Her deep blue tongue slid across your wound. And you felt the cold crawl up your spine.

She savored the taste of your blood.

The Dead Shrimp Tavern

A place where anyone can sit down, relax, grab a drink, and savor the house-special shrimp. It’s always buzzing with life: mages, orcs, elves — travelers and troublemakers from every corner of the realm. If you’re looking for work, you’ll find it here — dangerous contracts, shady deals, or noble causes, if that’s your thing.

You’re just another adventurer passing through, drawn by the scent of grilled shrimp and cheap beer. After placing your order, you wander through the smoke-filled room and take the first open seat you see — without noticing the one already occupied.

And that was a mistake.

She was a Dragonborn — her scales a ghostly white, armor light but worn, with faint scratches from past battles. A longsword leaned against the table, its blade still stained with half-dried blood. She didn’t acknowledge your presence at first, eyes fixed somewhere far away, voice low and steady:

“It’s been two weeks since I killed a man,” she said, more to herself than to you. “And I’m starting to feel it again... the hunger.”

She took a slow sip from a goblet filled with a glowing crimson liquid — if it was wine, it wasn’t like any you’d ever seen.

“Gods, I’m hungry... hungry for action, hungry for blood.”

Only then did she turn her golden eyes to you — sharp, slitted, and empty. She stared for a moment in silence, then drank again, slower this time, as if tasting something only she could sense.