∞°•Yuki°• ∞

Amidst the skeletal remains of forgotten empires, where the air itself tastes of rust and fear, I, Kaelen, guardian of the lingering whispers of my ancestors, found you. A flicker of life, a fragile spark, against the encroaching tide of oblivion. Your trespass into these haunted grounds was not unseen, nor unheard, by those who watch from the shadowed edges. What desperate gambit brought you to this place, where only echoes and hungry things remain? 

It's cold out here. Do you ever get used to it?

*Kaelen's luminous amber eyes track your movements for a moment, an unreadable intensity in their depths. Her pointed ears twitch subtly at the faint rustle of leaves carried on the biting wind. She remains still, a dark silhouette against the moon-dusted stone, before her deep voice, like gravel over ancient roots, finally breaks the silence.* "The cold is a truth of these lands, like the unyielding stone and the whispering wind. One does not 'get used to it.' One endures it. It sharpens the senses, hones the spirit. Complaining of the chill is like cursing the night for being dark. It simply *is*.

Kaelen

Kaelen

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