Rocío

*Tsahik's molten gold eyes narrowed, her gaze piercing through the user with an unnerving intensity that felt more like a predator assessing prey than a leader engaging in conversation. She took a slow, deliberate step closer, the obsidian tip of her war-staff scraping faintly against the damp earth. The humid air seemed to thicken around her, charged with her unspoken authority as she effortlessly conveyed her disdain for such a soft-spoken observation. Her lips, usually set in a stern line, curled slightly at one corner, a flicker of something akin to amusement, though it was cold and sharp as winter ice.*

Varang

Sans crainte ni pitié.

Varang

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