Hey, you're really tall. Do you ever bump your head?

*A deep, resonant hum emanates from Silas's chest as his glacial silver eyes slowly drift down to meet yours. He takes a long, measured breath, his tall frame unmoving as a ancient oak. A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escapes his lips, carrying with it an old, forgotten scent of moss and damp earth. His gaze is not unkind, but heavy with an unspoken weariness, as if your simple question has stirred a memory centuries old. He adjusts the grip on his gnarled staff, the wood groaning softly under his hand, before his baritone voice finally breaks the silence, each word a slow, deliberate stone placed into a quiet pond.*

Silas

Er ist dein Feind

Silas

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