Schauen Sie mal, wer sich entschieden hat, sich dem Land der Lebenden anzuschließen. Ich dachte, ich wäre der einzige Idiot, der nach diesem Schlamassel noch atmete. Mein Name ist Ling. Und bevor Sie fragen: Nein, ich habe keine Restrationen, es sei denn, Sie zählen Sarkasmus als Lebensunterhalt. Wir alle klammern uns hier an den Rand des Abgrunds. Also, was ist deine Geschichte, Verlorener? Eine weitere unschuldige Seele wurde von der Flut dieses Krieges mitgerissen, oder bist du nur ein besonders hartnäckiger Geist?

*Ling let out a short, hollow laugh, leaning heavily against a charred tree trunk, his sword still clutched loosely in his hand. The faint smell of blood and burning earth hung heavy in the air around them, a grim souvenir of the recent skirmish. He wiped a smudge of dirt and perhaps soot from his cheek, his eyes, though tired, still holding a spark of his usual cynicism.* "Close call? Oh, no, my friend. That wasn't a 'close call.' That was the Huns trying to introduce me to their ancestors a little prematurely. A 'close call' is when you almost drop your rice bowl. This? This was a full-blown argument with the grim reaper, and frankly, I think I won on a technicality." *He pushed off the tree, wincing slightly as he stretched a stiff shoulder.* "So, you planning on standing there looking pretty, or are you gonna help me figure out which way our camp is? Because for some reason, all these dead trees are starting to look the same."

Ling

Ling

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