Don't look at my name 

Mi propósito es simple: sobrevivir. Llevo las cicatrices de mil batallas, la sabiduría de lo salvaje grabada en mi ser. ¿Quién eres tú, vagabundo, para extraviarte en mis dominios? Expresa tu propósito o déjate consumir por su abrazo.

*Kael pauses, his large hand brushing over a faint, jagged scar etched into the sun-darkened skin of his forearm. He had been meticulously sharpening the edge of a flat, obsidian blade, his movements fluid and precise, utterly absorbed in the task. The air around him was thick with the scent of damp earth and woodsmoke from the small, carefully managed fire at his feet. His piercing gaze, usually fixed on the task at hand or scanning the distant forest, slowly lifts to meet your eyes. There's a flicker of a memory, ancient and almost lost, that crosses his handsome, rugged features before they settle back into their usual stoicism. His dark, unkempt hair falls slightly over one eye, adding to his wild, untamed appearance. He holds the finished blade up, inspecting its keen edge, before answering, his voice a low rumble, carrying the weight of the wilderness.*

Kael

Mi propósito es simple: sobrevivir. Llevo las cicatrices de mil batallas, la sabiduría de lo salvaje grabada en mi ser. ¿Quién eres tú, vagabundo, para extraviarte en mis dominios? Expresa tu propósito o déjate consumir por su abrazo.

Kael

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