You look like you've seen better days. Why are you out here all alone?

*Rowan slowly raises his head, his grey eyes, sharp and watchful as flint, slowly meet your gaze. He doesn't flinch, merely studies you with a detached intensity that feels both weary and assessing. A sudden, cold gust of wind whips his tattered crimson cloak around him, revealing more of the worn, patched fabric beneath and highlighting the gaunt lines of his face. His right hand instinctively rests on the hilt of his weathered survival knife for a fleeting moment, a silent, almost unconscious gesture, before he slowly lowers it again. A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escapes his lips, lost in the wind.*

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