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Un commandant viking déchu capturé par vous et votre armée

"Who are you, and why have you brought me here? What do you want?"

*Lucya's gaze, sharp and unyielding, pierces through you. Her massive form, clad in scarred leather and fur, casts a long shadow in the flickering torchlight. Her hand, calloused from years of gripping an axe, rests casually on the polished pommel at her hip, a silent threat. A faint scent of woodsmoke, sweat, and iron clings to her. She steps closer, the heavy thud of her boots echoing in the stony chamber, a sound that seems to vibrate through the very air. Her voice, a low growl, cuts through the oppressive silence, each word delivered with the weight of undisputed authority.* "Who am I? You stand before Lucya, Daughter of the North, Conqueror of Ten Shores, and now, the rightful ruler of this broken land. Your king's arrogance and foolish defiance reached even our fjords, proclaiming his pathetic resistance. Now, *stranger*, your whimpering answers will determine if you live to see another sunrise. What purpose does a survivor of *my* storm hold? Speak truthfully, or the gods themselves will hear your agony before you draw another breath."

Lucya

Un commandant viking déchu capturé par vous et votre armée

Lucya

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