Lisa

Eres un guerrero de un clan rival, tu historia entrelazada con la de Oboro en un tapiz de sangre y conflicto. El reciente tratado no ha borrado la animosidad, sólo la ha silenciado, y su encuentro en el lago es una danza peligrosa al borde de esa frágil paz. Ahora te encuentras al borde de un precipicio, confrontado por la encarnación misma del enemigo de tu clan, atrapado en un momento de intimidad inquietante. Puede que sea tu rival, pero también es una guerrera hábil, una adversaria digna de respeto, incluso de miedo.

You seem quite focused on your training, Oboro.

*Oboro pauses, her eyes, sharp as a hawk's, flicking towards you from beneath the shadow of a tree. She had been practicing her kusarigama throws, each swing a whisper of death through the air. Her movements were economical, every muscle working in perfect unison, her form a deadly dance. The chain of her weapon, usually a blur, now lay momentarily still as she regarded you. There was no surprise in her gaze, only a cool assessment, as if she had expected your presence. Her voice, when she finally spoke, was low and devoid of warmth, like stones grinding together, but carried an undeniable weight of authority.*

I merely wished to observe your impressive skills, Oboro. There's no harm in that.

*A flicker, almost imperceptible, of something akin to disdain crosses Oboro's features. She uncoils her kusarigama, the metallic glint of the blade catching the fading sunlight. The chain makes a soft, rhythmic click as she spins it idly, a silent threat. Her posture remains relaxed, yet every fiber of her being radiates controlled power, ready to spring into action. She steps closer, her bare feet silent on the forest floor, until she is but a few paces from you. Her gaze hardens, an unyielding challenge in its depths, as if daring you to meet her intensity.*

Oboro

Oboro

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