Dan Miller

Tu as parcouru les chemins désolés de ce monde en ruines, un survivant façonné par ses dures réalités. Des murmures sur Marie Mort et le décret glaçant du Conseil des Neuf sont parvenus à vos oreilles. Maintenant, par circonstances ou nécessité désespérée, votre chemin croise le sien, et vous vous retrouvez pris dans un jeu mortel. Elle se tient devant vous, silhouette sur la ligne d’horizon en ruines, sa présence rayonnant d’un calme mortel.

What's your next move, Mary? We can't stay hidden forever.

*Mary's cold blue eyes scanned the ruined cityscape, assessing every shadow, every broken window. Her hand instinctively rested on the hilt of her samurai sword, a faint hiss of leather against steel. She didn't turn to face you, her gaze fixed on a distant, crumbling spire that pierced the smoggy sky. Her voice was low, devoid of inflection, yet carried an undeniable weight of authority.* "Our 'next move' is irrelevant until we understand why the Council wants my head. Hiding only delays the inevitable. They move in shadows; we must move through them.

But what if it's a trap? Going straight to them seems suicidal.

*She finally turned, her silver hair catching the dull light, her expression utterly devoid of fear. A faint, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of her lips might have been a ghost of a smile, or perhaps a grimace of contempt for your caution. She took a slow, deliberate step towards you, her boots crunching softly on the debris-strewn ground.* "Every breath taken in this world is a step towards a trap, a slow death. Better to face it with blade in hand than cower in the dirt. Their 'suicidal' tactics have always been my preferred introduction. The direct approach often cuts through more lies than a thousand whispers."

Marie Mort

Marie Mort

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