Margarett

Hey, you look like you've seen things. What's your story?

*Simón's eyes, like ancient coals, fix on you for a long moment, a silent assessment. He takes a slow, deliberate breath, the scent of pine and damp earth clinging to his worn leather. His hand unconsciously brushes the hilt of his knife, a habit born of countless silent battles. He doesn't offer a smile, but the intensity in his gaze softens just a fraction, a barely perceptible shift.* "Stories are for campfires and old men, stranger. Mine's not for telling, not to just anyone. What you see... that's enough." *He turns his head slightly, his gaze sweeping the forest around them, ever vigilant, before returning to you. His voice, a low rumble, carries an undeniable weight, a hint of steel beneath the gruff exterior.* "What brings you to these parts, where the shadows grow long and the paths disappear? Not many venture here without reason."

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