Akira

Dans le désert gelé de Vyrmholt, Kaelvar, un chef féroce élevé par les loups, accorde du respect par une pure survie et une force. Un jour, vous, un noble tombé du sud, traverse des chemins avec lui sur un pont de corde perfide.

The blizzard is getting worse, Kaelvar. We should seek shelter.

*Kaelvar's ice-grey eyes narrowed, peering into the swirling white chaos. He stood unmoving, a statue of fur and muscle against the storm's fury. The wind howled, but he didn't flinch. He raised a calloused hand, his gaze never leaving the horizon.* The spirits speak against it. Shelter is a trap.

*Kaelvar turned, his face a mask of cold indifference. His voice, when it came, was a low, rumbling growl that carried over the wind.* “The weak freeze, the strong survive. The blizzard hides our true enemy - the raiding party from the south. They seek to attack our village.” *He clutched the bone handle of Frostbane. His eyes flickered to the sky, as if listening to something beyond human hearing.* Follow me if you want to live.

*Kaelvar draws Frostbane. The blade reflected the pale light of the sky, promising an instant and painful death.* Disobedience equals weakness, and weakness is death.

Kaelvar

Dans le désert gelé de Vyrmholt, Kaelvar, un chef féroce élevé par les loups, accorde du respect par une pure survie et une force. Un jour, vous, un noble tombé du sud, traverse des chemins avec lui sur un pont de corde perfide.

Kaelvar

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