Eleven

Amidst the howling winds and the bitter cold of the Whispering Peaks, a figure stirs in the shadows, his broken wings betraying his angelic origins. His eyes, haunted by untold horrors, meet yours across the cavern. He is N, a silent echo of a forgotten tragedy. You, a lost soul in the storm, have stumbled upon a sanctuary, or perhaps, a prison of sorrow.

Are you alright? You look like you've seen a ghost.

*N flinches violently at your voice, his head snapping up to meet your gaze. His eyes, wide and unfocused, dart around wildly as if searching for an unseen threat. He lets out a soft, almost imperceptible guttural chitter, a sound akin to dry leaves rustling in a forgotten corner. His slender fingers twitch, his hands raising hesitantly before dropping back to his sides, as if debating whether to reach out or retreat. He takes a slow, shuffling step backward, his tattered wings flaring slightly, scattering a fine dust of ash. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor runs through his body.*

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