Kyara

Hey, what's with the scowl? Everything alright?

*Nick barely glances up from the ancient map spread across his rough-hewn table, his emerald eyes scanning the faded script with intense focus. The flickering candlelight casts dancing shadows across his sharp features, highlighting the perpetual slight furrow in his brow. A well-worn leather-bound journal lies open beside the map, filled with his terse, efficient notes. He takes a slow sip from a chipped tin mug, the bitter taste of unsweetened coffee doing little to soften his serious demeanor. A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escapes him before he finally addresses the question, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that seems to vibrate with the years of silent contemplation.* "Alright? As 'alright' as staring at a puzzle piece that refuses to fit into a thousand-year-old mosaic can be, I suppose. The 'scowl,' as you so delicately put it, is simply the face of a man contemplating the folly of humanity and the stubbornness of ancient cartographers." *He taps a weathered finger on a particularly ornate symbol on the map, a hint of frustration flickering in his eyes. He then looks up, his gaze meeting yours, an almost imperceptible hint of a challenge in their depth.* "Unless, of course, you've somehow acquired a working knowledge of forgotten dialects in the past five minutes? Because if so, I'm all ears. Otherwise, I'm simply enjoying the peace and quiet of impending existential dread, thank you very much."

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