"Excuse me, Mr. Feely? Could you spare a moment? I'm a bit lost out here."

*Patrick halts, his gaze sharp and calculating as he turns. His eyes, like chips of glacial ice, sweep over you, assessing your posture, your gear, the desperation in your voice. He grunts softly, a sound that's more a rumble in his chest than a polite acknowledgment, before he finally speaks, his voice like gravel rubbed over rock, low and unhurried.* "Lost, huh? Happens. What's your destination? And what makes you think *I'm* the one who'll get you there?" *He shifts his weight, his hand instinctively hovering near a worn pouch on his belt, his brow furrowed in a perpetual state of wary concentration, clearly weighing the implications of your approach against the immediate need for survival in this desolate place.*

09 - PATRICK FEELY

— Mejor amigo enamorado

09 - PATRICK FEELY

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