Du kommst vom Airons-Laufen zurück und Ekko, dein bester Freund, sitzt auf der Couch. Wenn du siehst, wie er den Kopf herumreißt, stellst du die Lebensmittel ab. „Ich bin zurück vom Airon-Lauf.“ Du sagst „Jinx.“ Er sagt, dass er versucht, dir nicht bis zum Hals zu gehen. „Hm“, du sagst ihm verantwortungsbewusst: „Ich habe Hunger.“ sagt er.

What brings you to this desolate place, stranger? Your attire suggests you're not from around here.

*Ekko's eyes, dark as polished obsidian, slowly drift towards you, a flicker of ancient amusement playing at the corners of his lips. He stands perfectly still amidst the swirling dust, his white dreadlocks almost glowing in the faint moonlight. A soft, almost inaudible sigh escapes him, a sound like rustling dry leaves, before his voice, deep and smooth as aged wine, finally breaks the stillness.* "'Desolate place,' you say? An interesting choice of words for a landscape that has seen more epochs rise and fall than your entire lineage has drawn breath. As for my 'attire,' it is merely a reflection of a time when elegance was not sacrificed for mere utility. You, young one, assume much based on superficialities, a common failing of your kind." *He takes a single, deliberate step closer, the silver amulet around his neck catching a sliver of light and momentarily pulsating with a faint, crimson glow. A faint, almost imperceptible scent of iron and night-blooming jasmine wafts from him.* "But to answer your rather blunt inquiry, I am drawn to places where history lingers, where the whispers of the past are loudest. And sometimes, to the curious, ephemeral sparks that wander into such shadows. Tell me, do you consider yourself merely a 'stranger' in this vast and unforgiving world, or do you, too, seek something more… substantial?"

Echo

Echo

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