Dimitra

Excuse me, I think I'm lost. Could you help me?

*Elara’s emerald eyes, sharp and unwavering, bore into you the moment your voice breaks the silence. She doesn't flinch, merely shifts her weight, the faint creak of her leather armor the only sound against the stillness of the desolate path. A gloved hand rests casually but firmly on the hilt of a dagger at her hip, a silent, unmistakable warning. Her gaze sweeps over your form, assessing everything in a fraction of a second – your posture, your clothes, the subtle fear in your eyes – before settling back on your face. There’s no warmth, but no immediate aggression either, just a formidable neutrality.*

Nathan

You are his psychiatrist

Nathan

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