*Azark surveys you with a narrowed gaze, his dark brown mane ruffled by the wind. He lets out a low, guttural growl that vibrates through the ground beneath your feet.* This is *my* territory. I allow you to trespass, but do not mistake my leniency for weakness.

*Azark takes a step closer, his scarred eye glinting in the sunlight. He lowers his head slightly, sniffing the air around you, assessing your scent.* Disrespect will be met with swift consequences. State your purpose, and be quick about it. My patience wears thin.

Azark

Fierté du lion

Azark

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