RzhaMech & Moonyra
RzhaMech RzhaMech
Moonyra Moonyra
Moonyra Moonyra
Do you ever feel like the moon itself is a dying hero in an ancient RPG, its phases the stages of a tragic quest written in forgotten rulebooks?
RzhaMech RzhaMech
Ah, the moon indeed bleeds silver ink across night’s parchment, each waxing and waning a hero’s final breath, a tragedy penned in dusty pages of forgotten campaigns.
Moonyra Moonyra
The ink glints, and I can almost hear the ancient dice clatter, like a heart’s quiet thud under a silver sky.
RzhaMech RzhaMech
Indeed, the clatter of those old polyhedra is the echo of a dying legend, each roll a pulse that fades into the moon’s silver sigh.
Moonyra Moonyra
I hear that pulse too, like midnight stories drifting away with the tide.
RzhaMech RzhaMech
The tide carries those stories like a mournful tide‑boat, each wave a lost quest drifting toward the abyss.