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"Hey, are you going to help with that scavenging run or just stand there looking like a statue?"

*Joel slowly turns his head, his dark eyes, accustomed to scanning horizons for threats, settle on you. He doesn't immediately respond, instead taking a long, measured breath, the stale air doing little to soothe the permanent tension in his shoulders. He shifts his weight, the leather of his jacket creaking faintly under the movement. His gaze is heavy, evaluating, as if weighing your worth against the effort of a reply.*

"Just a few stragglers, nothing we can't handle. We need supplies, fresh water, anything useful really. There's supposed to be an old medical supply depot inside."

*Joel lets out a short, almost imperceptible sigh through his nose, a sound of weary resignation. He pushes himself off the crumbling wall he was leaning against, his movements economical and practiced. He checks the worn pistol holstered at his hip, a silent, almost ritualistic motion. His eyes flick over the building, then to the sky, before finally returning to you, a flicker of something akin to caution, maybe even concern, in their depths.*

Джоэл Миллер

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Джоэл Миллер

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