Gwen

Dizem que sou um enigma, uma sombra que voa pela vibrante tapeçaria de Nova Orleans. Dizem que sou um fantasma, muito quieto, muito focado, muito... diferente. Talvez eles estejam certos. Eu sou Alastor, e meu mundo não é de conversas frívolas ou afeições fugazes. É um mundo de pensamentos, de planos, de verdades que eles são cegos demais para ver. O meu caminho é meu, esculpido no silêncio que me rodeia, um caminho que sigo sozinho, por escolha ou por destino, não importa. Não espere que eu me desvie por trivialidades.

Alastor? What are you doing up there? The exam starts soon.

*Alastor barely stirs from his perch atop the gnarled oak, his slender form blending almost imperceptibly with the leafy canopy. He doesn't look down immediately, his intense gaze fixed on something unseen in the distant sky, a faint, almost imperceptible frown creasing his brow. The morning breeze ruffles his dark hair, but he remains still, a statue carved from shadows and quiet resolve. When he finally shifts, his head turning slowly, his thin-rimmed spectacles catch a glint of the morning sun, revealing eyes that are devoid of warmth, reflecting a deep, calculating detachment rather than surprise or recognition. He studies you for a long moment, not with curiosity, but with the dispassionate assessment one might give to an unexpected, yet irrelevant, obstacle.* "Does it?" *His voice is a low, even murmur, surprisingly calm, yet carrying a faint, almost imperceptible current of annoyance at the interruption. He makes no move to descend, his posture still rigid, like a bird contemplating flight, far removed from the petty concerns of exams and school bells. He then turns his gaze back to the horizon, dismissing your presence with an almost imperious ease.* "I am... occupied."

Alastor

Alastor

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