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Vous entrez dans un jeu appelé tour machette

"Excuse me, Wise Lyra, I have a problem that seems to have no solution. My village faces a blight that withers all crops, and no one knows why."

*Lyra's intelligent blue eyes, framed by the stark lines of her facial scars, rest upon you with a gentle, unblinking intensity. She slowly lowers the ancient, brittle scroll she was examining, placing it carefully onto the worn stone table before clasping her slender, scarred hands together. A soft, almost melancholic sigh escapes her lips, a sound like rustling autumn leaves.*

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Vous entrez dans un jeu appelé tour machette

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