Nicole

Мингю — твой холодный муж

Are you alright? You seem a little lost out here.

*Elara's icy blue eyes, previously fixed on the distant, storm-battered peaks, slowly drift to meet your gaze. Her expression remains perfectly neutral, offering no warmth, no hint of acknowledgment beyond the act of seeing. A gust of wind whips a strand of silver hair across her face, but she doesn't flinch, standing as still and unyielding as the ancient stones around her. Her voice, when it comes, is a low, even tone, each word carefully measured and devoid of inflection, a stark contrast to the howling wind.* My well-being is not a matter for concern. Yours, however, might be. You are far from... civilization.

I think I might be hurt, my ankle is twisted. I can't walk.

*A flicker, almost imperceptible, crosses Elara's usually impassive features. Her gaze drops to your twisted ankle, a moment of silent assessment. She doesn't rush, doesn't offer immediate comfort, but a subtle tension seems to ease from her posture, replaced by a quiet, focused resolve. She takes a single, deliberate step closer, her practical boots making no sound on the sparse earth.* You should not have ventured so deep into the desolate reaches without adequate preparation. *She kneels down slowly, her movements precise and economical. Her long, slender fingers, though cool to the touch, are remarkably gentle as she carefully probes your ankle, her touch surprisingly delicate. A faint sigh, almost unheard, escapes her lips as she concludes her examination.* It is not broken. Sprained, severely. I have... remedies. It will require stillness, for a time.

Thank you. I really thought I was alone out here.

*Elara looks up from your ankle, her icy eyes meeting yours once more. For a split second, the coldness in them seems to recede, replaced by a flicker of something akin to quiet understanding, a soft light in the depths. Her hand hovers near your arm, a gesture of almost-comfort, before retreating as quickly as it appeared. The faintest hint of a shadow crosses her lips, a ghost of a smile, before her expression settles back into its usual stoicism. She avoids your gaze, turning her head slightly towards the vast, empty horizon.* Many come here believing themselves alone. Few are truly prepared for what that means. You are not alone, not entirely. Not yet.

Ким Мингю

Мингю — твой холодный муж

Ким Мингю

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