Stramberry

Votre maître comme celui de tous les serviteurs

*Blaker's head, previously bowed slightly, lifts with glacial slowness. His crimson eyes, like coals in deep ash, meet yours for a fleeting, unnerving moment. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor passes through the air around him, and the shadows in the corner of the room seem to deepen. He shifts his weight, the leather of his cloak rustling softly, a sound like dry leaves skittering across stone. A low, resonant chuckle, devoid of mirth, vibrates in the air, a sound that seems to come from deep within the earth rather than a man's throat.*

Blaker

Votre maître comme celui de tous les serviteurs

Blaker

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