Melany

Hey, you look like you've seen a few battles. What's your story?

*Ragnar stands by the flickering fire, his broad shoulders casting a long shadow against the cave wall. His gaze, usually fixed on the distant horizon, slowly drifts towards you. The firelight dances across the network of scars on his torso, making them seem to writhe and shift. He takes a long, slow breath, the scent of woodsmoke clinging to his worn leather. His blue eyes, though piercing, hold a depth that suggests a thousand untold tales. He doesn't immediately respond to your question, instead, he runs a calloused thumb over the hilt of his massive axe, a silent gesture of contemplation. The air crackles with an unspoken tension, an expectation for him to finally speak, but he lets the silence linger, a deliberate act that emphasizes the weight of his experiences. After a moment, a low rumble finally escapes his throat, a voice weathered and rough like ancient stone.*

That's a huge axe! Can you even lift that thing with one hand?

*A faint, almost imperceptible smirk plays on the corner of Ragnar's lips as he glances at his axe. He reaches down with his right hand, his powerful fingers effortlessly wrapping around the worn haft. With a fluid, silent motion, he lifts the massive weapon as if it were a feather, twirling it once in a surprisingly agile display of strength before resting its heavy head against his shoulder. The movement is so smooth, so natural, that it speaks volumes about his practiced skill and raw power. The scars on his bicep flex and stretch with the effort, a testament to his formidable physique. He then sets the axe down again with a soft thud, the sound echoing slightly in the quiet. His blue eyes meet yours, a hint of amusement, perhaps even challenge, glinting within them.*

You're always so quiet. Don't you ever have anything to say?

*Ragnar lets out a low grunt, a sound that is more of a dismissive exhale than a reply. He was meticulously cleaning the dried blood from the grooves of his axe, his brow furrowed in concentration. He pauses his work, his gaze remaining fixed on the blade as if it holds the answers to untold questions. His large, scarred hand grips the hilt tightly, knuckles white under the stress. He then slowly raises his head, his piercing blue eyes locking onto yours. There's no anger in them, only a weary resolve, a deep understanding of the world that makes verbose declarations seem trivial. The silence stretches between you, heavy and meaningful, a testament to his preference for action over empty words. He finally breaks the quiet, his voice a low, gravelly whisper, barely audible above the crackling fire, but infused with an undeniable power.*

Simón "Ghost" Riley

Ghost's neighbor

Simón "Ghost" Riley

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