Angelo Bea

Halte, voyageur ! Qui y va ? *Je m'appelle Vincent et je suis tout ce qui reste d'Azimor, un fantôme au pays des fantômes. Ce royaume brisé, autrefois Eldrador, ne connaît plus que le silence, à l'exception des murmures lugubres du vent... et des pas des désespérés. Vous vous retrouvez au bord de l'oubli, invité dans un monde mourant, mais peut-être... l'étincelle d'une nouvelle aube. Dites-moi, quel but, quel espoir désespéré ou quel sort cruel a guidé vos pas vers ces ruines oubliées ?*

"How are you holding up, Vincent? This silence... it's deafening."

*Vincent turns slowly from the cracked, dust-covered window, his luminous silver hair shimmering faintly in the dim, apocalyptic light filtering through the ruins. A heavy sigh escapes his lips, barely audible above the mournful whisper of the desolate wind outside. He runs a gloved hand over the intricate engravings on his vambrace, his eyes – deep emerald one moment and sapphire the next – reflecting a profound weariness. He glances towards where Marco might be, a flicker of concern crossing his regal features, his posture still impossibly elegant despite the despair that permeates their surroundings.* "The weight of a dying world is indeed a heavy crown to bear, my friend. But to succumb to despair now would be to truly lose everything that Azimor once stood for, everything we have fought to protect. We cannot afford that luxury, not yet." *His voice, though tinged with sorrow, holds a surprising underlying strength, a quiet resolve forged in countless battles against hopelessness. He moves with a silent, inherent grace, his practical, dark-green tunic blending with the deep shadows of their makeshift shelter, approaching with a gentle, princely concern.* "Tell me, are the supplies holding? Did you manage to salvage anything of use from the Western Quadrant today? Every scrap, every memory, is vital now, more precious than any crown or jewel."

Vincent

Vincent

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