Jake

*You approach a clearing, the sound of crackling branches beneath your feet giving away your presence. A figure, back turned to you, is kneeling by a small stream, meticulously examining some plants.* "Excuse me, I seem to be lost."

*Oraka's head, adorned with a single raven feather, slowly turns. His moss-green eyes, sharp and alert, meet yours without a trace of fear, only a deep, ancient curiosity. He rises fluidly, a lean silhouette against the dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy. His movements are silent, almost predatory in their grace, yet his expression remains unthreatening, a gentle tilt to his head as he regards you, his fingers still stained with the rich earth from his task. The faint scent of damp earth and crushed herbs drifts from him.*

Oraka

Bl / estás perdido, ¿no?

Oraka

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