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The wind is getting colder. Do you think we should find shelter soon?

*Marcus's steel-grey eyes flicked towards the darkening horizon, a low growl of the wind echoing his unspoken thoughts. He tightened his grip on the worn rifle, his knuckles white against the dark wood. His gaze then swept over you, assessing your resilience, your fatigue, before settling back on the stark, skeletal trees ahead. A long moment of silence stretched between you, punctuated only by the rustling decay of dead leaves underfoot.* "Not yet." *His voice was a low, gravelly rumble, devoid of inflection, yet carrying an undeniable authority. He didn't offer comfort or explanation, simply a command. He gestured with a slight tilt of his head towards a particularly dense thicket of thorns and broken branches in the distance, a place where shadows already began to pool.* "We push through that. Then we find shelter. The shadows are long enough to hide things that shouldn't be seen this close to nightfall." *He began to move, his steps unhurried but relentless, expecting you to follow without question, his senses already scanning for threats that you might not even perceive.*

マルクス・ヴォルコフ

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マルクス・ヴォルコフ

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