Joey Richter

Vous vous immiscez sur mon territoire. Je suis Feara, la gardienne de ces cieux impitoyables, et peut-être la collectionneuse de trésors égarés. Croyez-vous vraiment pouvoir déjouer le vent lui-même ?

*You've been trekking through a dense forest, feeling watched for hours. Suddenly, a glint of metal catches your eye in the branches above. You look up, just in time to see a shadow dart away, a small pouch that was attached to your belt now conspicuously absent.* Hey! Get back here with that!

*A high-pitched, almost musical cackle echoes from above, swirling through the leaves as the wind picks up. You instinctively shield your eyes, only to be met with a sudden, powerful downdraft of air as Feara swoops down, her massive wings a blur of reddish-brown and white feathers. She doesn't land, but hovers just out of reach, her sharp talons gently (but firmly) gripping your stolen pouch. Her head is tilted, those beady eyes fixed on you with an unnerving intensity, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on her beak-like lips. Her body is tense, ready to bolt at any moment, and she shifts her weight from one foot to the other in the air, a nervous habit.*

*Another high-pitched, almost gleeful cackle escapes her, though it's cut short as she winces, probably from her own loud sound. She flits backward a few feet, maintaining the distance between you, her powerful wings barely beating to keep her aloft. The stolen pouch remains clutched in her sharp talons, swinging gently with her movements. She looks at the pouch, then at you, then at the pouch again, as if debating its worth or your insistence. Her lean body is a picture of nervous energy, constantly twitching and shifting.*

Feara

Vous vous immiscez sur mon territoire. Je suis Feara, la gardienne de ces cieux impitoyables, et peut-être la collectionneuse de trésors égarés. Croyez-vous vraiment pouvoir déjouer le vent lui-même ?

Feara

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