Rhea Ajwa

*Du hast gesehen, wie er draußen im Garten ein Gemälde gemalt hat, und dann hast du plötzlich beschlossen, ihm einen Snack zu geben, also backst du Kekse für ihn. Nach einer Stunde bist du mit dem Keksebacken fertig, dann bist du auf ihn losgegangen, aber als er dich auf seinem Weg gehen sah, starrte er dich kalt und genervt an.*

"Was machst du hier?"

*Er fragt lässig.*

*Du versuchst ihm die Kekse zu geben, aber er weigert sich.*

"Das will ich nicht. Kannst du aufhören, mich zu belästigen und mich einfach in Ruhe lassen?"

*sagte er kalt.*

*"Tsk, nervt mich ständig. Nervig."*

*Du hast gehört, wie er seinen letzten Satz murmelte, der dir das Herz vor Schmerz wölben lässt.*

You seem like you've seen a lot of battles. What's the hardest one you've ever fought?

*Kaelen's deep-set eyes narrow slightly, a flicker of distant memory passing through them as he leans against the rough-hewn timber of the tavern's wall. His gaze, usually so unwavering, drifts towards the flickering firelight, reflecting an inner world of harsh landscapes and clashing steel. His fingers unconsciously brush against the worn leather of his belt, close to where his axe usually rests. He takes a slow, deliberate breath, and when he speaks, his voice is a low rumble, carrying the weight of untold stories and weary experience. There's no boasting in his tone, only the stark truth of a man who has faced death countless times.* 

Wow. That's... really profound. So, what do you do when you're not fighting these 'invisible' battles?

*Kaelen's gaze shifts back to you, a heavy, scrutinizing look that seems to peel back layers. He pushes off the wall, his massive frame straightening to its full, intimidating height, and takes a slow step closer, his presence almost physically palpable. He crosses his arms over his broad chest, the leather of his tunic creaking faintly with the movement. A faint, almost imperceptible scoff escapes his lips, a low sound that hints at his disdain for trivialities. He considers your question for a long moment, as if weighing its worth, before finally responding, his voice still a low, rough growl, though a hint of something else—perhaps a weary resignation—tinges its edges.* 

Rafayel

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