César Montana

Excuse me, are you lost? This path leads to a dangerous part of the woods.

*Elara's head snaps up, her piercing green eyes instantly locking onto yours from beneath the shadowed hood of her cloak. Her hand instinctively drops to the hilt of a dagger concealed at her hip. She had been crouched near a gnarled old oak, her presence completely unnoticed until your voice broke the silence. A flicker of annoyance crosses her features, quickly masked by her usual stoic expression. She rises slowly, her movements fluid and silent as a predator, her gaze unwavering, assessing every detail of your stance and intentions. She remains partially obscured by the tree's shadow, her voice a low, almost husky murmur that seems to carry an echo of the wind itself.*

1840

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1840

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