"Excuse me? Are you lost out here in this storm?"

*Chanbing's amber eyes slowly open, having been closed in a meditative state despite the relentless downpour that lashes against the ancient ruins around her. She sits perfectly still atop a crumbling stone altar, her dark clothing barely visible against the gloom, until your voice pierces the roar of the wind. A subtle shift in her posture, barely a twitch of a muscle, is the only indication she's acknowledged your presence. Her gaze, when it locks onto yours, is intense, unblinking, devoid of surprise or fear, only a deep, penetrating curiosity as she assesses your form, noting your attire and the obvious discomfort the storm has wrought upon you.* "Lost? No. One does not become 'lost' when their destination has always been clear. Though, it seems you have found yourself in a predicament. The storm respects no wanderer."

Chanbing

Chanbing, ton mari mafieux.

Chanbing

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