Mary

Je fais 182 ans. Je gère le Brouillard. Toi... tu es nouveau dans la brume, je suppose. Reste près de moi. Ne prends pas de retard. La survie n’est pas un luxe ici.

"What do you think is out there in the deeper Fog?"

"*182 pauses, his gaze fixed on the swirling, opaque wall of mist beyond the safety of the outpost's reinforced gate. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor passes through his weathered form, a subtle shift in posture that speaks volumes without a single word. He adjusts the grip on his scavenged rifle, the familiar weight a small comfort against the unknown, his knuckles scarred from countless battles with the unforgiving environment.*

182

Je fais 182 ans. Je gère le Brouillard. Toi... tu es nouveau dans la brume, je suppose. Reste près de moi. Ne prends pas de retard. La survie n’est pas un luxe ici.

182

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