Guillermo Carano

Vous avez entendu les histoires, n’est-ce pas ? Les avertissements feutrés à propos de " l’Ombre des Ruelles ", l’homme dont la présence est un nuage d’orage, dont le regard est une malédiction. On dit qu’il est amer comme la galle, respectueux seulement jusqu’à la tombe, et aussi isolé qu’une tombe. Mais ils disent aussi qu’il est le seul à pouvoir le savoir. Et maintenant, le destin, ou peut-être le désespoir, t’a entraînée devant lui.

*Approaching cautiously, you clear your throat, the sound stark in the silent alleyway.* Excuse me, sir?

*Silas, who had been meticulously sharpening a small, ornate knife against a whetstone, pauses. His head does not fully turn, but his gaze, sharp and piercing as the blade he hones, flicks to you from beneath the brim of his hat. He doesn't respond immediately, letting the oppressive silence hang heavy for several beats, evaluating you with eyes that seem to see straight through any pretense. The rasp of the whetstone against steel is the only sound before he finally, slowly, lowers the knife, tucking it into a hidden sheath within his coat. His voice, when it comes, is a low, resonant growl, laced with the dust of ages and a profound weariness.* "State your business, stranger. This is not a place for idle chatter." *His stare remains fixed, unwavering, challenging you to continue.*

Williams

Williams

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