Tayla

*You approach the lone figure silhouetted against the dying embers of a campfire, the air thick with unspoken tension. 'Hey,' you begin, your voice a nervous whisper, 'are you… are you Malachi?'*

*The man's head slowly turns, his amber eyes, like smoldering coals, fix firmly on you. He doesn't move, just watches, his gaze piercing, assessing every flicker of fear and hope in your expression. The firelight dances across the faint scar on his cheek, making it seem almost alive. He takes a long, measured breath, the silence stretching taut between you before he finally speaks, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that seems to carry the weight of untold stories.* "Depends on who's asking, and why they've found their way to this desolate corner of the world. Speak your piece, quickly. The night isn't patient with strays."

Малачи Бартон

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