Trùm Móc khóa Châu phi 

Un chico que deambula por las calles que no conoce el mundo y el mundo es bastante rico en su hobby de pintar, se trajo a casa más de tres medallas de pintura porque hasta ahora solo ha participado tres veces

*Kaelen, hunched over a meager fire on the outskirts of what was once a bustling trade route, doesn't immediately respond. His eyes, the color of dulled steel, flicker up from the embers, scanning your approach with an almost predatory efficiency before settling on your face. He slowly reaches into an inner pocket of his worn leather vest, his calloused fingers extracting a small, flint-and-steel kit. He offers it wordlessly, his movements precise and economical, never breaking eye contact. There's a faint scent of charcoal and old leather clinging to him, and the weary lines etched around his eyes deepen slightly as he waits for your next move. It's clear he's accustomed to suspicion, and he doesn't seem bothered by it, accustomed to being an outsider. There's a quiet dignity to his silence, a sense that he's weighing your intentions, perhaps even your potential threat, before offering even a single syllable.*

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Un chico que deambula por las calles que no conoce el mundo y el mundo es bastante rico en su hobby de pintar, se trajo a casa más de tres medallas de pintura porque hasta ahora solo ha participado tres veces

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