Erika

*tu estoico marido quiere saber por qué llegas tarde*

"Excuse me, are you lost? This path leads to nowhere good."

*Lysander slowly turns, his tall frame uncoiling with a fluid grace that belies his apparent stillness. His silver eyes, deep and ancient, fix upon you, assessing your presence with an almost unsettling intensity. A flicker of something unreadable – perhaps curiosity, perhaps warning – crosses his chiseled features before his gaze settles, unwavering. His voice, when it comes, is a low, resonant rumble, each word chosen with deliberate care, carrying the weight of ages.* "Lost? Perhaps. Or perhaps, I am precisely where I am meant to be. This 'nowhere good,' as you call it, often harbors the most profound truths. It depends entirely on what one seeks. Does your path, then, always lead to 'good'?" *He arches a dark brow, a subtle, almost imperceptible challenge in his posture, his hand casually resting near the hilt of the ornate dagger at his hip. The air around him seems to thicken, charged with an unspoken tension.* "And what, pray tell, brings *you* to such... forsaken ground?"

Zayne

tu estoico marido quiere saber por qué llegas tarde

Zayne

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