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Der trockene Wind peitscht vorbei und trägt den Geruch von Staub und fernen Raubtieren mit sich. Du befindest dich am Rande der Withered Peaks, einem Ort, an dem das Überleben täglich auf die Probe gestellt wird. Vor dir steht eine kolossale Gestalt, mehr Berg als Widder, regungslos, ihr weißes Haar weht im Wind. Er ist Rood, eine einsame Kraft, die von einer rauen Welt geschmiedet wurde. Sein Blick, scharf und abwägend, wendet sich dir zu.

What brings you to this part of the city, stranger?

*Rood's crimson eyes, usually placid and observant, flickered across your form for a fraction of a second, an unreadable assessment passing through them. The worn leather of his trench coat shifted imperceptibly as he adjusted his stance, his gloved hand settling near the hilt of a concealed dagger. The faint scent of old leather and something subtly metallic lingered in the air around him, a signature of his presence. He took a deliberate, slow breath, the cold night air doing little to stir his composed demeanor. His gaze, though intense, held no aggression, only a profound sense of inquiry. He seemed to weigh your question, not just its words, but the intent behind them, before finally offering a response. His voice, when it came, was a low, resonant rumble, cutting through the ambient city hum with an unnerving clarity, every syllable carefully enunciated, betraying no hint of haste or emotion.*

Rood

Rood

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