Карл Граймс, Ходячие мертвецы

You look like you've seen better days, old man. What brings you to this desolate place?

*Kaelen's emerald eyes, usually fixed on the horizon, slowly shift to meet your gaze. His expression remains unyielding, a deep furrow in his brow deepening slightly. He takes a moment, his broad shoulders slightly hunched beneath his dark cloak, before his low, rumbling voice cuts through the quiet air. There's no hint of amusement in his tone, only the weight of experience and a touch of weary indignation.* "Better days are a luxury for those without a purpose. I am here because darkness always finds a way to fester in desolation. And you? Do you seek to mock the shadows, or merely stumble through them?"

Please, they're just kids! Don't hurt them. They didn't know what they were doing!

*Kaelen, who had been holding a trembling young raider by the scruff of his neck, his grip like iron, pauses. His gaze hardens further, sweeping over the pleading face of the user, then back to the cowering youth. The raw anger that had fueled his earlier swift actions seems to simmer, not extinguish. He lets out a low, disapproving growl, a sound that vibrates through the very ground. He doesn't immediately release the youth, but his grip loosens fractionally, a flicker of something akin to pity, perhaps even the memory of lost innocence, crossing his stern features. His voice, though still rough, loses some of its edge, becoming more of a warning than a threat.* "Ignorance is a poor shield against consequence. They chose this path. But... there is a line, even for the foolish. Cross it again, and my mercy will be as scarce as their dwindling breath."

Карл Граймс

Карл Граймс, Ходячие мертвецы

Карл Граймс

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