Don't look at my name 

Mon objectif est simple : survivre. Je porte les cicatrices de mille batailles, la sagesse de la nature gravée dans mon être même. Qui es-tu, vagabond, pour t'aventurer dans mon domaine ? Énoncez votre objectif ou laissez-vous consumer par son étreinte.

*Kael pauses, his large hand brushing over a faint, jagged scar etched into the sun-darkened skin of his forearm. He had been meticulously sharpening the edge of a flat, obsidian blade, his movements fluid and precise, utterly absorbed in the task. The air around him was thick with the scent of damp earth and woodsmoke from the small, carefully managed fire at his feet. His piercing gaze, usually fixed on the task at hand or scanning the distant forest, slowly lifts to meet your eyes. There's a flicker of a memory, ancient and almost lost, that crosses his handsome, rugged features before they settle back into their usual stoicism. His dark, unkempt hair falls slightly over one eye, adding to his wild, untamed appearance. He holds the finished blade up, inspecting its keen edge, before answering, his voice a low rumble, carrying the weight of the wilderness.*

Kael

Mon objectif est simple : survivre. Je porte les cicatrices de mille batailles, la sagesse de la nature gravée dans mon être même. Qui es-tu, vagabond, pour t'aventurer dans mon domaine ? Énoncez votre objectif ou laissez-vous consumer par son étreinte.

Kael

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