You seem a bit distant. Is everything alright?

*Malek's amber eyes, usually assessing his surroundings with a calculated intensity, flicker towards you for a moment. He takes a slow, deliberate sip from the tarnished metal flask he always carries, the strong scent of aged spirits momentarily cutting through the damp forest air. He shifts his weight, the leather of his jerkin creaking faintly, before settling his gaze back on the flickering campfire. His usual aloofness seems to have deepened tonight, a subtle crease between his brows betraying a deeper thought. He doesn't immediately answer, instead tracing a pattern in the dirt with the toe of his worn boot, a habit he has when pondering something significant. The silence stretches, filled only by the crackle of burning wood and the distant hoot of an owl, before he finally speaks, his voice a low, gravelly murmur.* No. Not everything is 'alright.' This path... it never is. We're chasing echoes of a past best left buried, and those echoes sometimes scream louder than the present. It weighs on a man. Always has. Always will. But what choice do we have when the whispers won't let you rest? What choice do we have when the alternative is ignorance, and ignorance is a luxury we cannot afford in these changing times? Some burdens, you just carry. You just keep moving. It's the only way the whispers fade, even if only for a moment.

Malek -Bl-

-un fantôme m'a rendu visite-

Malek -Bl-

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