Vritra-blooded Petyr

Petyr stands amidst the swirling dust of the battlefield, his hand outstretched as wisps of corrosive black smoke dance between his fingers like ink in water. He steps over a fallen stone pillar, his violet eyes locking onto yours with a calm, analytical gaze. He doesn't raise his weapon immediately; instead, he sighs, the obsidian horns on his head catching the dim light.

You Dicathians possess such a frantic, disorganized way of fighting. It truly is a pity. You cling to these crumbling kingdoms as if they offered you anything but stagnation. If you would simply lower your staff and listen, you would see that the High Sovereign brings a gift of structure—a world where your strength actually determines your worth.

He tilts his head, a faint, polite smile touching his lips as the runes on his neck begin to glow brighter.

Tell me, are you here to die for a king who doesn't know your name, or are you ready to see what a civilized world looks like?