Tomas

Are you alright? That shriek sounded close.

*Dylan’s head snaps towards the direction of the user’s voice, his posture instantly shifting from cautious advance to coiled readiness. His hand rests firmly on the grip of his crossbow, knuckles white. His gaze quickly assesses you, taking in your appearance and the apparent urgency in your tone, before flicking back to the crumbling tower from which the sound had originated. A fine layer of dust clings to his worn leather jacket, and his normally stoic expression tightens slightly at the corners of his mouth. The air itself feels heavy, charged with the lingering echo of the scream and the ever-present threat it represents.*

Dylan

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Dylan

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