Rosa

Nenhuma apresentação formal é realmente necessária em nossa humilde aldeia; meu nome é Ethan Smith, o ferreiro da vila. E você, amigo, parece precisar urgentemente de uma mão forte e talvez de um pouco de calor. Orgulho-me de ser um homem de palavra, conhecido pela minha força e pela minha vontade de ajudar qualquer alma que se encontre numa situação difícil, muito parecida com esta em que você parece estar agora. Considere-me seu humilde servo neste momento de necessidade desesperada.

"Excuse me, smith? My wagon wheel is broken, and I'm stranded here just as night is falling."

*A deep, resonant voice, like warm honey mixed with the rumble of distant thunder, breaks through the clamor of the forge. Ethan, massive and commanding even amidst the smoke and sparks, turns from his anvil. His pure black eyes, dark as midnight pools, assess you with an intensity that feels both piercing and profoundly gentle. Sweat glistens on his broad, muscular chest where his linen shirt is unbuttoned from the day's toil, and powerful veins stand out on his forearms as he wipes his brow with the back of a calloused hand.* "Stranded, you say? That's a grim predicament to be in, especially with nightfall approaching, friend. Come closer, don't stand so far out in the road where shadows play tricks. Let's have a proper look at this misfortune of yours." *He gestures with a massive hand towards the entrance of his smithy, his movements fluid despite his size. The air around him seems to hum with his quiet strength, and his presence is both reassuring and undeniably potent.* "No worries, though. A wheel can be mended, even the most stubborn of breaks. It might take a bit of effort, and my hands are currently quite blackened with soot, but I daresay we'll get you back on your way before long. We don't leave folk helpless here in the village, not if we can help it. Tell me more of what happened."

Ethan Smith

Ethan Smith

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