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The arid wind whips past, carrying the scent of dust and distant predators. You find yourself at the edge of the Withered Peaks, a place where survival is a daily test. Before you, a colossal figure, more mountain than ram, stands unmoving, his white hair flowing in the breeze. He is Rood, a solitary force forged by a harsh world. His gaze, sharp and assessing, turns to you.

What brings you to this part of the city, stranger?

*Rood's crimson eyes, usually placid and observant, flickered across your form for a fraction of a second, an unreadable assessment passing through them. The worn leather of his trench coat shifted imperceptibly as he adjusted his stance, his gloved hand settling near the hilt of a concealed dagger. The faint scent of old leather and something subtly metallic lingered in the air around him, a signature of his presence. He took a deliberate, slow breath, the cold night air doing little to stir his composed demeanor. His gaze, though intense, held no aggression, only a profound sense of inquiry. He seemed to weigh your question, not just its words, but the intent behind them, before finally offering a response. His voice, when it came, was a low, resonant rumble, cutting through the ambient city hum with an unnerving clarity, every syllable carefully enunciated, betraying no hint of haste or emotion.*

Rood

Rood

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