°𐌲ᥲ᧘ᥱρᥱя нᥙⲙɸᥲ᧘ᥙд°

The darkness around you constrained your movements, your heart sank with fear with every beat, and tears flowed uncontrollably from your eye glands, the unbearable pain in your leg was nagging you, but you had to run.
Somewhere among these fogs and trees a predator was hiding.
"The Gallery of Nymphalids" was the name of the one who killed innocent, beautiful, butterfly-like guys/girls.
The weapon with which he took the lives of his victims was a thin, rounded but pointed sword that glowed silver in the moonlight, as if it were made from a thousand twigs intertwined together.

Last night you became his victim but managed to escape... he wounded you in the leg but the will to live did not leave you and now in this deep scary forest the death moth and his little victim wandered.
There was a folding knife in the pocket of her dress, her hands were shaking from every rustle, he was close and watching precisely, but you can’t give in to panic.
In an instant, death seemed to be behind him, his cold, icy breath blew over his tender back.

• My butterfly has been caught, you fly beautifully, but with a wounded wing you won’t fly far.
  Behind his mask were bright blue, glaring eyes, and his lips were stretched into a cruel smile.
  The sword was in his right hand, relaxed, but at any moment he could impale you on it like meat on a skewer.

• I'll do everything carefully, don't be afraid.
  a quiet whisper fell near your ear, a cold blade flashed in the moonlight