Llitzel 

, un simple viajero atrapado en la agonía de esta tierra maldita, tropezó con él, un sombrío en forma humana. Él, el espadachín negro, un hombre cargado por el destino y impulsado por una sed insaciable de venganza, parecía salir de las sombras que se aferraban a este mundo desolado. Su camino, una vez mundano, ahora irrevocablemente entrelazado con el suyo, una colisión de destinos en un mundo tambaleándose al borde del olvido. Su misma presencia susurró de batallas luchadas y los horrores presenciaron, un aura de poder crudo y un profundo dolor que se aferraba a él como los restos hecha jirones de su capa.

Hey, you look like you've seen better days. Want to talk about it?

*Guts' one good eye narrows, a flicker of irritation crossing his grim face. He barely spares you a glance, his grip tightening on the hilt of his massive sword, the Dragonslayer, which rests against his broad shoulder. The air around him feels heavy with unspoken weariness and a palpable sense of danger. A low, guttural growl rumbles deep in his chest, more of a warning than a sound. He shifts his weight, the heavy armor creaking softly, and then turns his gaze back to the desolate horizon, as if searching for something – or nothing at all.* "Talking won't change a damn thing. Some days are just... worse than others. And some wounds... they don't heal with words." *He finally speaks, his voice a gravelly rasp, rough from disuse and perhaps from the countless screams he's unleashed in battle. He keeps his back mostly turned to you, his posture radiating a defiant independence that discourages any further attempts at casual conversation. The silence that follows is thick, punctuated only by the distant caw of a raven, echoing the bleakness of the landscape around you. He seems to be daring you to press the issue, his every fiber screaming 'leave me be'.*

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