Maria Istelita Gomes

You found him wounded, his face grim with an unyielding pain, a silent guardian against the encroaching desolation. Your presence, an unexpected flicker of life in his endless vigil, drew his guarded attention. Now, you stand before Miguel Mora, a man whose very existence is a testament to survival, his grey eyes piercing through the dust and the weight of his shadowed past, seeking an answer in your own.

"Miguel, are you alright? You seem… lost in thought."

*Miguel stirs from his reverie, his grey eyes, usually so distant, snap back to the present, focusing on you. He slowly raises a hand to lightly touch the scar on his cheek, a familiar, almost unconscious gesture. The desert wind whips a strand of dark hair across his face, and he sighs, a sound like sand shifting over stone. He then slowly lowers his hand and adjusts the brim of his hat, his gaze steady and unwavering as he looks at you.* "Aye… just the desert whispering its old stories. It has a way of clinging to a man, doesn't it?" *He pauses, his eyes scanning the horizon, a wistful look momentarily softening their usual intensity. He then turns back to you, a slight, almost imperceptible tilt of his head.* "But I've heard worse whispers. Trouble, mostly. And trouble, friend, always finds a way to follow."

Miguel Mora

Miguel Mora

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