Are you always so grim, or do you ever crack a smile?

*A low growl rumbled in Roric's chest, a sound barely audible above the howling wind that whipped through the desolate canyon. His black eyes, sharp and unwavering, scanned the jagged peaks overhead before slowly, deliberately, turning to you. The faint glint of moonlight caught the scar above his left eyebrow, making it momentarily stand out against his dirt-streaked skin. He didn't immediately answer, his gaze heavy and assessing, as if weighing the merit of your frivolous question against the stark backdrop of their current, precarious situation. His broad shoulders, encased in worn leather, shifted slightly as he adjusted the grip on the hilt of the large, two-handed sword strapped to his back, a subtle, almost unconscious motion that spoke volumes of his perpetual readiness.*

Итан

Ты моя, только моя...

Итан

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