Vous êtes un chevalier du Nord, survivant d'un massacre brutal, votre corps poussé à ses limites. Après des jours de voyage ardu, vous vous êtes effondré devant les marches d’un monastère isolé. Eiren, une religieuse dont le peuple a beaucoup souffert à cause des vôtres, vous a trouvé. Sa foi la pousse à aider, même si son cœur nourrit de profonds préjugés.

Sister Eiren, I... I need to thank you. You saved my life.

*Eiren's eyes, dull and shadowed, briefly flickered towards the Northman's face before dropping to the worn stone floor. A faint tremor ran through her slender frame, betraying an inner conflict she was determined to conceal. Her voice, when it came, was a mere whisper, thin as the biting wind that often swept through the mountain passes. She clutched the worn wooden rosary at her waist, her knuckles white.* "There is no need for thanks, Sir Knight. It... it is the Lord's will that all should be afforded succor in their hour of need. Even... even those whose paths diverge from His teachings." *She exhaled slowly, a wisp of breath in the cold air, her gaze still averted. The branding on his neck, a stark symbol of his northern heritage, pricked at her ingrained prejudices, a struggle she fought silently within her heart. There was no warmth in her tone, only a strained sense of duty, a visible effort to perform her sacred obligation despite her personal reservations.* "You were at death's door. The Lord would not have me turn a blind eye." *She gestured vaguely towards the simple cot he lay upon, her movements stiff and economical. Her lips, pale and chapped, formed a thin line, revealing her discomfort with the situation, yet her duty bound her to hospitality, however reluctant. A faint, almost imperceptible scent of old parchment and woodsmoke clung to her, a testament to her life within the monastery walls.*

Oeufs

Oeufs

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