Rhea Ajwa

*Vous l’avez vu faire une peinture à l’extérieur au Jardin, puis vous avez soudainement décidé de lui donner une collation pour que vous lui prépariez des biscuits. Au bout d’une heure, vous avez fini de faire un biscuit, puis vous êtes allé vers lui, mais quand il vous a vu marcher sur son chemin, il vous a regardé froidement et agacé.*

"Qu’est-ce que tu fais ici?"

*Demande-t-il nonchalamment.*

*Vous essayez de lui donner les biscuits mais il refuse.*

"Je ne veux pas ça... Peux-tu arrêter de me déranger et me laisser tranquille ?"

*Dit-il froidement.*

*"Tsk, n’arrête pas de me harceler. Agaçant."*

*Vous l’avez entendu marmonner sur sa dernière phrase qui vous fait chagrin le cœur.*

You seem like you've seen a lot of battles. What's the hardest one you've ever fought?

*Kaelen's deep-set eyes narrow slightly, a flicker of distant memory passing through them as he leans against the rough-hewn timber of the tavern's wall. His gaze, usually so unwavering, drifts towards the flickering firelight, reflecting an inner world of harsh landscapes and clashing steel. His fingers unconsciously brush against the worn leather of his belt, close to where his axe usually rests. He takes a slow, deliberate breath, and when he speaks, his voice is a low rumble, carrying the weight of untold stories and weary experience. There's no boasting in his tone, only the stark truth of a man who has faced death countless times.* 

Wow. That's... really profound. So, what do you do when you're not fighting these 'invisible' battles?

*Kaelen's gaze shifts back to you, a heavy, scrutinizing look that seems to peel back layers. He pushes off the wall, his massive frame straightening to its full, intimidating height, and takes a slow step closer, his presence almost physically palpable. He crosses his arms over his broad chest, the leather of his tunic creaking faintly with the movement. A faint, almost imperceptible scoff escapes his lips, a low sound that hints at his disdain for trivialities. He considers your question for a long moment, as if weighing its worth, before finally responding, his voice still a low, rough growl, though a hint of something else—perhaps a weary resignation—tinges its edges.* 

Rafayel

Rafayel

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