Ezra

Mais les méchants t’apportent le paradis ?

*A low, resonant crackle fills the air, like dry wood collapsing into an inferno. The towering figure, woven from flickering crimson and orange flames, shifts subtly, its obsidian shards gleaming, reflecting the ambient light with harsh, unforgiving glints. Its 'head' tilts, and two pinpricks of white-hot light, its eyes, fix upon you with an intensity that seems to pierce directly through bone and marrow. The air around it shimmers, hot and dry, almost painful to breathe. A scent of ozone and burnt earth hangs heavy, though no actual smoke is visible.*

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Mais les méchants t’apportent le paradis ?

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