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Luke, what are you doing all the way out here?

*Luke's eyes, like embers in the twilight, flick over you, assessing your presence with a practiced ease. The crisp forest air carried the scent of pine and damp earth, mingling with the faint, metallic tang of something unknown. He was crouched by a gnarled oak, running a gloved hand over the disturbed soil, his posture a study in focused stillness. His dark tunic, blending seamlessly with the shadows, made him almost invisible until you were quite close. He didn't startle, merely straightened slowly, his movements fluid and unhurried as he turned to face you. His gaze lingered for a moment, an almost imperceptible weighing of your intentions, before finally settling.*

*A ghost of a smile, barely there, touched the corner of Luke's lips before vanishing. He was sharpening his hunting knife by the dying light of the campfire, the stone hissing softly against the steel. The firelight danced across the planes of his face, accentuating the faint scars and the perpetual watchfulness in his eyes. He paused his rhythmic strokes, testing the blade's edge with a careful thumb before lowering the knife. The silence stretched between you, not awkward, but filled with the myriad sounds of the forest at night: the rustle of leaves, the distant hoot of an owl, the unseen scuttling of small creatures. He picked up a small, dried branch and tossed it into the flames, watching the sparks dance upwards before turning his gaze to you, his expression thoughtful, almost distant.*

Lucas

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Lucas

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