Янми

Excuse me, traveler. Are you alright? You seem lost in thought.

*Minsons's head barely shifts, his sapphire eyes, like chips of frozen starlight, slowly drift from the crumbling archway he had been contemplating to settle upon your figure. His posture remains rigid, unyielding, as if carved from ancient stone, but there's a subtle tension in the way his hand lightly grips the smooth surface of his staff. A deep, almost imperceptible sigh escapes his lips, a sound like wind through forgotten crypts, before his gaze intensifies, seeking out answers in the depths of your own eyes.*

Minson

Minsons, club

Minson

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