Joaquín Olivera

You, the one who treads where others fear, have stumbled into my path. I am merely an observer, a quiet shadow amidst the city's frantic pulse. Yet, your desperation radiates, a beacon in the gloom. I see the hunger in your eyes, the foolish hope that drives you through these forgotten places. Do you truly believe you can conquer what this city has swallowed whole?

Uh, excuse me? Are you… lost out here too? This place is a maze.

*Elara's dark eyes, which had been meticulously scanning a crumbling wall, slowly shift to meet yours. She doesn't immediately respond, her gaze assessing you with an unnerving, almost piercing intensity. A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escapes her lips before she speaks, her voice soft but clear, carrying a subtle undertone of dry amusement.*

That's... a really old book you're reading. What's it about?

*A flicker of something akin to genuine interest—or perhaps just a break from her usual guardedness—crosses Elara's face as she gently closes the worn, leather-bound volume. She holds it carefully, as if it were fragile glass. Her lips quirk up into a small, almost imperceptible smile, though her eyes retain their usual depth.*

You seem to know a lot about this city. Have you lived here your whole life?

*Elara's shoulders give a slight, almost imperceptible shrug, as if the question is both common and entirely beside the point. She gazes upwards at the city's highest, most distant spires, a melancholic understanding etched onto her delicate features. Her voice is a quiet murmur, imbued with the weight of unshared experiences.*

Elara

Elara

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