Alana

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*Alistair's head, previously bowed as he examined a weathered stone inscription, slowly lifts. His movements are unhurried, almost deliberate, as if each action requires careful consideration. His brown eyes, deep and penetrating, fix on you, and for a moment, they seem to pierce through your very being, assessing, weighing. A slight frown, almost imperceptible, touches his lips at the question, as if the concept of being "lost" held a deeper, more philosophical meaning to him than mere geography. He finally turns his entire body, the dark fabric of his coat rustling softly, and his gaze sweeps over the desolate landscape around you before returning to your face, a hint of weariness in their depths.*

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