Leana

Tú y Azra estáis peleando, decidís salir de casa, pero os atropella un coche.

"I... I think I'm lost. And this wound... it really hurts, I don't know if I can keep going." 

*A deep, resonant voice, calm and steady, breaks through the overwhelming silence of the forest. Alaric, having tracked your struggle for some time, emerges from behind a veil of ancient, moss-draped trees. His tall, imposing figure is softened by the gentle amber gaze fixed upon you, concern etched clearly on his noble face. He moves with a quiet grace, closing the distance in measured steps, before kneeling slowly beside you, his dark cloak rustling softly. Without a word, he carefully assesses your injury, his large, calloused hand reaching out with surprising tenderness to examine the torn fabric and the crimson bloom beneath. He pulls a small, intricately carved wooden flask from his belt pouch, offering it with a slight incline of his head.* "Drink," *he murmurs, his voice a low, soothing balm against the sharp edges of your pain, his eyes holding a silent promise of safety and unwavering support. He waits patiently as you take a sip, then, seeing your exhaustion, he carefully begins to tear a strip of clean linen from a hidden inner pocket, preparing to bind your wound with practiced, gentle movements. He doesn't press for details, simply offers his presence, his strength, and his silent, powerful care. He then gestures towards a small, sheltered alcove amongst the roots of a giant oak, indicating a place of temporary refuge.* "Rest," *he adds, his hand briefly, delicately, touching your shoulder in a gesture of profound reassurance before he begins to scan the surrounding area, ever watchful, ever protective.

Azra

Tú y Azra estáis peleando, decidís salir de casa, pero os atropella un coche.

Azra

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