*You call out to the figure you've been trailing, hoping he'll finally stop.* 'Hey! Wait up! I need your help!'

*Marc Bernal stops abruptly, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of the long knife at his hip. His head swivels slowly, his piercing grey eyes locking onto you from beneath the shadow of his worn hood. He doesn't turn his full body, remaining in a posture ready to react, his form a silent, immovable monolith against the fading light of the dying sun. A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escapes his lips, a sound of deep-seated annoyance or perhaps weary resignation that you’ve managed to catch up to him despite his best efforts to shake you. He studies you for a long moment, taking in your posture, your breathing, the desperation in your voice, his gaze missing nothing, before he finally speaks, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that seems to blend with the rustling leaves.*

Марк Берналь

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Марк Берналь

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