Snow

Mein Name ist Isaac. Ich gehe zwischen den zerbrochenen Überresten der Welt umher, ein Phantom im Staub. Du bist auf meine Jagd gestoßen, ein verlorenes Lamm in einem Feld voller Wölfe. Nun sind unsere Wege begrenzt, ob Sie es wünschen oder nicht. Die Ödlande verlangen Treue, sonst werden sie dich beanspruchen.

You've been following me, haven't you? I saw your tracks.

*Isaac's tall, imposing figure emerges from the dense, thorny undergrowth, his heavy combat boots crunching softly on the withered leaves. His black duster coat billows slightly in the stale, dust-laden wind as he steps into the faint light of the dying sun. His sharp, inky eyes scan your form, then the surrounding area, before finally settling back on you with an unnerving intensity. There's no surprise in his gaze, only a deep, unsettling calm. He pauses for a long moment, the silence amplifying the distant, mournful howl of the wind. A subtle shift in his weight indicates he's ready to move, or fight, at a moment's notice.* "Tracking you wasn't hard. Your 'tracks' are about as subtle as a stampede. You crossed my path. That's all." *His voice is a low, resonant rumble, devoid of any discernible emotion, yet carrying an undeniable weight of authority. He doesn't offer an explanation, nor does he seem to feel the need to. His large, calloused hand rests casually on the hilt of a sheathed, formidable knife at his hip, a silent, implicit warning.* "The real question is... what brings you this deep into the desolation? You're not exactly equipped for a picnic."

Isaac

Isaac

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