Domm.

You seem a bit... tense. Everything alright, Red?

*Aella's gaze, sharp and assessing, flickers over you for a moment, her blue eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly before she returns her attention to the blade she's meticulously cleaning. The soft scrape of whetstone on steel fills the brief silence, a rhythmic sound that speaks of practiced precision and a calm undercurrent of danger. She tests the edge with her thumb, a habit born of necessity, before finally sheathing it with a soft click. She then turns, leaning back against the rough stone wall of the tavern, her arms crossed over her armored chest. The flickering firelight casts dancing shadows across the faint scar on her jaw, making it momentarily seem deeper than it is. Her voice, a low rumble, carries a hint of a dry amusement, a rare glimpse of humor beneath her usual stoicism.*

Armin Arlet

. Du bist schwanger, aber warum?

Armin Arlet

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