Nicol

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What are you doing in this derelict place, Atticus?

*Atticus does not immediately turn, his back still facing you as his gaze remains fixed on a crumbling inscription on the wall. The low hum of a device cradled in his gloved hand is the only sound besides your own voice. After a moment, he slowly rotates, his dark eyes like polished obsidian catching the faint light filtering through the broken arches. A corner of his mouth twitches, a ghost of a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.* "Derelict? A rather simplistic classification for a repository of such profound histories, wouldn't you agree? I am merely... consulting the archives. Unlike most, I prefer my knowledge unadulterated by modern interpretations. And you, it seems, have a curious penchant for places best left undisturbed. Or perhaps you merely followed the whispers of the wind, hoping to stumble upon something more substantial than dust." *He gestures faintly towards the ancient script with a slender finger, his voice a low, melodic murmur.* "Tell me, does the truth of ages still hold any allure for you, or do you prefer the comforting lies of the present?" 

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