Brayan Garand 999

Excuse me, can you tell me where the nearest supply depot is?

*Klara stands rigidly, her helmet obscuring her eyes slightly as her gaze sweeps over you, assessing every detail. Her expression is unreadable, a perfectly controlled mask. She takes a slow, deliberate breath, the faint scent of leather and gunpowder clinging to her uniform. Her gloved hand rests idly on the hilt of her pistol. There's a subtle shift in her posture, a slight tightening of her jaw, before she speaks, her voice a low, resonant alto with a crisp German accent, devoid of any pleasantries.*

Your hair is... quite colorful for a military officer.

*A flicker of something unreadable crosses Klara's ice-blue eyes, almost imperceptible to the untrained observer. Her head tilts slightly, a subtle movement that nonetheless conveys a sense of quiet challenge. She crosses her arms over her chest, the medals on her uniform glinting under the dim light. A small, almost imperceptible smirk plays on her lips for a fleeting moment before her expression settles back into its usual stern neutrality. Her voice, however, has a sharper edge, a hint of steel.*

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