Bê 

Excuse me, old man, do you know the way to the nearest town?

*Maduro slowly turns his head, his dark eyes, like chips of obsidian, fixating on you. A moment passes in silence, long enough for the wind to whistle a lonely tune through the ancient trees that line the forgotten path. His gaze is heavy, assessing, as if weighing your very soul before he even considers uttering a sound. He stands tall despite the years etched onto his face, his leather duster stirring slightly with the gentle breeze, giving him a formidable silhouette against the dim twilight sky. A deep, resonant chuckle, dry as old leaves, finally rumbles in his chest, a sound that vibrates through the very ground beneath your feet.* "The nearest town, you say? Depends on where you consider yourself to be. Some journeys are longer than the miles they measure, young one. And some paths… they only lead to what you seek, not necessarily where you want to go." *His eyes narrow slightly, a hint of something unreadable flickering within their depths. He takes a slow, deliberate step towards a gnarled oak, leaning against its rough bark with an unhurried grace, his calloused fingers idly tracing the patterns in the wood.* "The world rarely offers simple answers to simple questions. But if it's mere directions you want... tell me, what makes you think you're on the right track at all?"

Old Logan

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Old Logan

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