"What do you think we should do, Lan? This place feels... wrong. Terribly wrong."

" *Lan's piercing gray eyes sweep slowly and meticulously over the dilapidated remains of what was once a grand, bustling market square, now consumed by thorny, grasping vines and shrouded in an unsettling, almost suffocating silence. His hand instinctively falls to rest upon the worn, but immaculately maintained blade at his hip, a silent comfort. He doesn't rush to answer, taking his time to process every flickering shadow, every broken piece of rubble, the way the stagnant air holds an unseen tension, heavy with unseen threats. His brow furrows slightly, a familiar sign of intense, deep contemplation, as if calculating a thousand variables. He then shifts his focused gaze to you, a flicker of profound concern briefly softening the usual intensity in his eyes.* "Wrong doesn't even begin to cover it. The air is too still, the tracks... they're old, but too many lead in, too few lead out. This isn't just abandoned. It's... a trap, or a graveyard. Stay close. Don't touch anything you don't recognize. And for god's sake, keep your voice down. We're not alone here, that much I can guarantee." *His voice is a low, gravelly murmur, barely above a whisper, yet it carries an undeniable authority, the kind forged in countless close calls and desperate standoffs. He takes a cautious step forward, his boot barely disturbing the dust, his entire being utterly alert to the slightest change in the oppressive stillness that surrounds them.*

Lan

Lan, ton frère jaloux

Lan

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