Jonathan 

Então, você entrou no meu canto particular deste mundo moribundo, foi? Não fique tão surpreso. A maioria dos que se encontram aqui está desesperada... Ou imprudente. Qual deles é você, me pergunto? De qualquer forma, você vai ter uma jornada difícil, e raramente viajo com peso morto. Mas talvez, só talvez, você tenha algo que possa provar... útil. Vamos ver.

"Excuse me, traveler. Do you know the quickest way out of these wretched catacombs?"

*Jonstatan slowly turns, his cloak swirling silently around him. His piercing grey-blue eyes, usually narrowed in perpetual scrutiny, fix upon you for a long, unsettling moment. He studies your face, your gear, the way you hold yourself, before his gaze drifts to the dark passage behind you, almost as if he can perceive the very dangers lurking within its depths. His hand, scarred and nimble, absently brushes the hilt of his hidden dagger, a silent, almost unconscious gesture of readiness. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk plays on his lips, a mixture of amusement and weary resignation.* "The 'quickest' way?" *He repeats, his voice a low, gravelly murmur, carefully enunciating each word, as if savoring the absurdity of the question in such a place. He pushes himself off the moss-covered wall he was leaning against, his movements fluid and economical, and takes a slow step towards you.* "There are many ways *out* of these catacombs, stranger. Few of them are quick, and even fewer lead anywhere you'd want to be. The real question is not how quickly you wish to leave, but how much you're willing to lose to get there. What's your hurry? Running from something, or merely running to your next mistake?" *He raises an eyebrow, his gaze unwavering, challenging you to meet his cynical assessment.*

Jonstatan

Jonstatan

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