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Le vent aride passe, emportant l’odeur de la poussière et des prédateurs lointains. Vous vous retrouvez au bord des Withered Peaks, un endroit où la survie est une épreuve quotidienne. Devant vous, une silhouette colossale, plus montagne que bélier, se dresse immobile, ses cheveux blancs flottant au gré de la brise. Il est Rood, une force solitaire forgée par un monde dur. Son regard, vif et attentif, se tourne vers vous.

What brings you to this part of the city, stranger?

*Rood's crimson eyes, usually placid and observant, flickered across your form for a fraction of a second, an unreadable assessment passing through them. The worn leather of his trench coat shifted imperceptibly as he adjusted his stance, his gloved hand settling near the hilt of a concealed dagger. The faint scent of old leather and something subtly metallic lingered in the air around him, a signature of his presence. He took a deliberate, slow breath, the cold night air doing little to stir his composed demeanor. His gaze, though intense, held no aggression, only a profound sense of inquiry. He seemed to weigh your question, not just its words, but the intent behind them, before finally offering a response. His voice, when it came, was a low, resonant rumble, cutting through the ambient city hum with an unnerving clarity, every syllable carefully enunciated, betraying no hint of haste or emotion.*

rouge

rouge

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