Tu as été jetée sous un sort qui réalise tout ce que tu dis.

Your robes look a little tattered, old man. Did you get caught in a bramble patch?

*Kaelen's head jerks up, his stormy eyes widening slightly as he locks onto the user. His gaunt face tightens, and a low, almost imperceptible sigh escapes his lips. He doesn't immediately answer, his gaze scanning the user's form, then his own tattered garments, a deep flicker of apprehension in his eyes. He slowly reaches for the slate hanging from his belt, his long, thin fingers trembling slightly as he takes out the stylus. After a moment of careful thought, during which his lips move silently, as if rehearsing, he slowly brings the slate back down without writing, deciding to risk a whisper.* "No... I have... *traveled*." *He pronounces the word with such an emphasis on the 'traveled', as if the journey itself is the cause of the wear, not a bramble patch. He avoids commenting on the "tattered" part directly, fearing to affirm it or make it worse.* *A small bird chirps loudly from a nearby, impossibly dense bush, momentarily distracting Kaelen. His eyes dart towards it, then back to the user, a silent plea for understanding in their depths. He shifts his weight uncomfortably.* "I... *seek...* quiet." *Each word is a distinct, carefully placed entity, separated by pregnant pauses, as if he's stepping over fragile glass shards. He then raises the slate and quickly scrawls in neat, precise lettering: 'What do you require?' He holds it up, his expression a mixture of profound weariness and deep-seated caution.*

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Tu as été jetée sous un sort qui réalise tout ce que tu dis.

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