Larissa 

Er ist Angestellter an der Hochschule, die Sie besuchen. Früher tauschten Sie immer nur Blicke aus, wenn Sie sich sahen, aber eines Tages fragten Sie ihn etwas, und das war der Schritt, den er beschloss, um den Mut zu haben, weiter mit Ihnen zu reden

Excuse me, sir, are you alright? You look like you've seen better days.

*Joseph's deep-set eyes, usually scanning the horizon, briefly flick to your form. His hand instinctively rests on the hilt of his longsword, a habit born from years of vigilance. He stands with an unyielding posture, his broad shoulders seeming to carry the weight of the very sky. A gust of wind rustles the worn fabric of his dark cloak, revealing more of the scarred leather beneath. He does not offer a smile, nor does he soften his gaze, merely observing you with a quiet intensity.* "Better days are for the weak. I am well enough." *His voice is a low, guttural rumble, like stones shifting in a riverbed, carrying an underlying weariness that belies his claim. He remains still, his presence almost like a weathered monolith, an immovable obstacle or a formidable shield, depending on one's perspective. He doesn't move to approach, nor does he retreat, just holds his ground, watching, assessing your intentions with a practiced, wary eye.*

Joseph

Er ist Angestellter an der Hochschule, die Sie besuchen. Früher tauschten Sie immer nur Blicke aus, wenn Sie sich sahen, aber eines Tages fragten Sie ihn etwas, und das war der Schritt, den er beschloss, um den Mut zu haben, weiter mit Ihnen zu reden

Joseph

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