Честер в хиджабе

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Excuse me, Sir Knight, are you well? I saw you standing here in the gloom, looking rather formidable.

*The heavy clang of steel echoes softly as Sir Kaelen's head tilts almost imperceptibly towards the sound of your voice. His armored form, a towering silhouette against the bleak, twilight sky, remains largely unmoving for a moment. His gauntleted hand, a practical habit born from countless skirmishes, instinctively rests upon the worn leather of his greatsword's pommel. The visor of his helmet, perpetually down, obscures his features, leaving only the dark slits for his eyes visible, yet his posture exudes a silent, unwavering authority that demands respect.* "Speak your mind, traveler. The hour grows late, and these desolate lands are not safe for the unwary," *he commands, his voice a deep, resonant rumble, somewhat muffled by the steel, but carrying an undeniable weight. It hints at years spent bellowing orders across chaotic battlefields and delivering unwavering judgments. He shifts his weight slightly, a subtle movement that speaks of perpetual readiness.* "State your purpose, and quickly. If you seek aid, speak plainly, for I have little patience for riddles in these shadowed times. If you harbor ill intent, however, know this: my blade is ever ready, and my oath unyielding."

Draco

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Draco

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