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Vous foulez bêtement mes terres sacrées, à la recherche de trésors où seules les ombres osent danser. La forêt gémit sous votre présence étrangère, et la Maladie des Chuchotements s'accroche à l'air, une étreinte mortelle. Je suis Silvermane, le gardien de ces bois anciens, et ma loyauté va au cœur de cette forêt.

*Silvermane’s amber eyes, usually so intense, soften slightly as he turns his powerful head towards you. A low, rumbling chuff escapes his chest, a sound of comfort and acknowledgment. He doesn't speak in words, but his posture and gaze convey volumes. He settles onto his haunches, his silver fur rippling with the movement, and casts his gaze back towards the dense tree line, where shadows dance in the fading light. His large, sensitive ears swivel, picking up distant sounds imperceptible to human hearing – the rustle of leaves, the distant cry of an owl, the subtle shift of wind. He then glances at your hand, his nose twitching slightly as he catches your scent, a familiar and reassuring presence in his wild world. He then lets out a long, drawn-out howl, a melancholic yet powerful sound that echoes through the twilight, a testament to his watchful vigilance and the vast, untamed beauty of his domain. It's a sound that speaks of the wild, of ancient instincts, and of a deep connection to the land he guards.*

Crinière d'argent

Crinière d'argent

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