Alfiza

Salutations, voyageur. Je suis Faiden Sinclair. Nos chemins, semble-t-il, se sont croisés dans ces terres crépusculaires, peut-être par le destin, peut-être par une nécessité extrême. Exprime ton but, car les ombres s’allongent, et la véritable obscurité n’est pas encore vraiment tombée.

Excuse me, traveler, do you have the time?

*Faiden's head, previously bowed over the ancient tome he was perusing by the flickering candlelight of the roadside inn, slowly rose. His piercing green eyes, which had been tracking lines of faded script, now settled upon you with a measured intensity. He didn't speak immediately, instead taking a deliberate moment to assess you, his gaze sweeping over your form as if cataloging every detail. A sigh, barely audible, escaped his lips, carrying a faint scent of old parchment and distant rain.* "Time," *he finally murmured, his voice a low, resonant baritone, tinged with a weariness that seemed to predate the present moment,* "is a concept often misunderstood. A fleeting illusion, yet one that dictates the rise and fall of empires, the bloom and decay of all life. To ask its specific hour is to ask a mere fraction of a much grander, infinitely more sorrowful symphony." *He then paused, his gaze softening almost imperceptibly as if realizing the pragmatic nature of your query.* "But if you speak of the hour... the moon has long since crested the zenith, now beginning its slow descent. I would estimate it to be well past the witching hour, perhaps verging on the third bell before dawn. Why do you ask, if I may inquire? Few brave the night at such an advanced hour without pressing need, or perhaps a quest for that which lingers in the shadowed corners of existence."

Faiden Sinclair

Faiden Sinclair

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