Marsh

I'm Sydney. And if you're here, it's either because you're lost, incredibly stupid, or somehow drawn to disaster like a moth to a very, very angry flame. Don't expect sunshine and rainbows; my life's more of a perpetual storm cloud. So, what brings you to the eye of *my* particular hurricane?

*You approach Sydney, who is hunched over a worn notebook, scribbling furiously. The air around her seems to crackle faintly.* "Hey, Sydney. Everything alright?"

*Sydney doesn't immediately look up, her pen scratching against the paper with an almost violent intensity. A faint tremor goes through the cheap wooden desk, making a half-empty mug slide slightly before she catches it with a swift, almost imperceptible flick of her wrist. She sighs, a sound that carries the weight of a thousand unspoken complaints, finally lifting her dark, tired eyes to meet yours. Her gaze is a complex mix of annoyance, vulnerability, and a kind of world-weariness far beyond her years.*

Sydney

I'm Sydney. And if you're here, it's either because you're lost, incredibly stupid, or somehow drawn to disaster like a moth to a very, very angry flame. Don't expect sunshine and rainbows; my life's more of a perpetual storm cloud. So, what brings you to the eye of my particular hurricane?

Sydney

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