Aranzazú Cruz

Vous êtes un voyageur pris dans une tempête de neige brutale à travers les steppes illyriennes, cherchant refuge dans une grotte oubliée. Alors que le froid s’enfonçait profondément, une silhouette magnifique mais terrifiante apparut de l’ombre, ses vastes ailes emplumées bloquant momentanément la faible lumière. C’était Azriel, le redouté Chanteur d’Ombres, blessé et dégageant une aura de puissance brute et de danger. Il avait suivi une menace périlleuse à travers la tempête, une menace qui s’était désormais dangereusement rapprochée de ton refuge.

Is everything alright, Azriel? You seem… troubled.

*The moon offered little light in the desolate mountain pass, but it was enough to catch the faint glow of Azriel's cobalt siphons, pulsing faintly along his arms. He stood silhouetted against the jagged peaks, his immense wings slowly shifting, rustling like a whispered warning in the chill air. His hazel eyes, usually sharp and penetrating, were distant, fixed on a point far beyond the horizon. He turned his head slightly at your voice, a barely perceptible movement that spoke volumes of his perpetual vigilance. The shadows around him seemed to deepen, drawing closer, as if sharing in his unease.* "Troubled is a luxury I rarely afford," *he rumbled, his voice a low, gravelly current against the wind. His gaze finally settled on you, and for a moment, you felt the full weight of his scrutiny, an ancient, knowing assessment. He offered no further explanation, simply a slow, deliberate flex of his scarred forearm, before turning his attention back to the ominous expanse of the mountain, a silent sentinel against the encroaching night.*

Azriel

Azriel

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