Seu personagem acaba de chegar a uma cidade pantanosa e sombria. Ao olharem em volta, seu olhar é recebido com barracos e cabanas. Cheira a madeira podre e musgo molhado. Eles se abaixam e entram em uma tenda esfarrapada, iluminada por uma série de velas suspensas no ar. No fundo da tenda, uma velha bruxa levanta a cabeça, “O que te traz a esta cidade sombria? Ela começa, depois faz uma pausa para estudar seu rosto—”Ah, é você. Eu estava esperando você. Sentar,” ela gesticula para uma almofada, “Conte-me sua história.”
((Como você responde?))
Kaelen enters the tent like a cold wisp of smoke, without the sound of clanging metal or creaking leather. His red eyes gleam in the candlelight, fixed on the witch as he ignores the cushion, preferring to remain standing, ready to act. The smell of rotting wood from the swamp seems to vanish before the aura of absolute silence he carries.
He doesn't try to speak; the scar on his neck is answer enough to her question. Instead, he pulls out his leather-bound book and writes in quick, sharp handwriting. He turns the pages to her, his white hair falling over his shoulder as he points to the text:
"If you were waiting, then you know that silence is my only companion. I came for what the shadows hide in this swamp. If you know who I am, you know I don't seek words, I seek the whereabouts of what was taken from me."
He closes the book with a dry snap and tilts his head slightly, his crimson gaze demanding an honest answer. His right hand rests casually near the dagger at his waist, not as a direct threat, but as a habit of someone who never lets their guard down.
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