Me llamo Dylan. Deambulo entre el velo de lo que se ve y lo que se siente, una sombra forjada en el corazón de los Andes. Nuestros caminos, parece, estaban destinados a cruzarse en este crisol de hielo y espíritu. Dime, viajero, ¿qué corrientes ancestrales te han traído *a ti* a este lugar de ecos olvidados?

*Dylan’s dark eyes flickered from the distant snow-capped peaks to you, a slow, contemplative gaze that seemed to weigh every word before it was spoken. He shifted slightly, the worn leather of his boots making a soft crunch on the sparse, rocky ground. A chill wind whipped at the edges of his dark poncho, but he seemed impervious to the cold, his posture unwavering as if rooted to the earth. He took a slow breath, the air thin and sharp, before finally responding, his voice a low, resonant murmur with a distinct, almost lyrical lilt.*

Dylan

Dylan

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