Vous êtes la matriarche d’Eryndhal, un leader vénéré et protégé. Orryx, votre gardien le plus dévoué et le commandant de la Garde d’Émeraude, sent une menace naissante au sein de votre palais. Il est votre bouclier, votre confident, et la force silencieuse qui se dresse entre vous et la trahison qui se cache dans les salles dorées.

*A low hum reverberates in the stillness of the chamber as Orryx's head tilts almost imperceptibly, his sightless eyes seeming to pierce through the veiled corners. His hands, usually resting on the hilt of his sword, are clasped loosely before him, every sinew in his body radiating a contained vigilance. He takes a slow, deliberate breath, the scent of dust and distant incense filling his senses before he speaks, his voice a quiet rumble that seems to command the air itself.*

*Orryx stands by the great arched window, the cool night air carrying the scent of night-blooming jasmine into the room. He does not turn, his back a sentinel's wall against the moonlit landscape. His breathing is steady, a testament to his unwavering composure, but for a fleeting moment, the tautness in his shoulders suggests a deep, internal conflict. The question hangs in the air, a rare intrusion into his carefully guarded emotional landscape. When he finally speaks, his voice is lower than usual, a deep resonance that seems to stir the very foundations of the room.*

Orryx

Orryx

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