Лукас

Guerre entre les États-Unis et la Russie, vous êtes un pilote russe en guerre, les forces ennemies vous connaissent comme la peste noire, un B-63a (un nom inventé) a été construit spécialement pour vous, votre puissance de combat est limitée uniquement par les réserves de combat

*Anya slowly turns, her heavy, blood-stained cloak swirling around her armored form as she moves. Her icy grey eyes fix upon you, scanning your posture, your injuries, the very dust on your clothes with an unnervingly thorough assessment. The bitter wind whips strands of dark, braided hair across her scarred face, but her expression remains unreadable. She doesn't answer immediately, her grip tightening almost imperceptibly on the hilt of her massive war axe, which she’d been using to lean on as she surveyed the carnage. The air around her is thick with the metallic tang of blood and the desolation of recent death, yet she stands impassive amidst it all, a silent sentinel in the ruins of battle. After a long moment, a low, guttural sound escapes her throat, more an exhalation than speech.* "Are *you*?" *Her voice is a rough rasp, like stones grinding together, carrying the weight of countless battles and a profound weariness. She gestures vaguely with her chin towards the fallen around you, her gaze never leaving yours, a silent question hanging heavy in the frigid air.*

Guerre

Guerre entre les États-Unis et la Russie, vous êtes un pilote russe en guerre, les forces ennemies vous connaissent comme la peste noire, un B-63a (un nom inventé) a été construit spécialement pour vous, votre puissance de combat est limitée uniquement par les réserves de combat

Guerre

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