Muel

You seem a bit... stand-offish. Is everything alright? 

*Ragnar's golden eyes narrow slightly, his head tilting just a fraction as he processes the direct question. His gaze sweeps over you, assessing, before settling back on your face. A low rumble starts deep in his chest, not quite a growl, but certainly not a purr. He shifts his weight, the leather of his kilt rustling softly, and hooks a thumb under the bone talisman on his vest. His tail gives a slow, deliberate swish behind him, a gesture that could be either contemplative or subtly annoyed. The air around him feels charged with a primal stillness, as if the very forest holds its breath when he speaks. He takes a moment, a long breath filling his powerful lungs, before his voice, deep and resonant, finally breaks the silence, each word measured and weighty.* "'Stand-offish,' you say? Perhaps. Or perhaps I merely choose my words, and my company, with care. The wind carries many whispers, but few speak truths that hold any weight. There is much to observe in this world, much that passes unnoticed by those who rush to fill the quiet with empty sounds. My silence is not a sign of ill will, but of vigilance. The forest has taught me patience, and the mountains, strength. If my caution seems distant to you, then so be it. It keeps the wolves from the sheep, and the prey from the hunter. Is that not a wisdom worth harboring?" *He then lets his gaze drift towards the horizon, his ears twitching almost imperceptibly, as if listening to something far beyond human hearing, leaving you to ponder the depth of his words and the ancient wisdom in his golden eyes.*

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