Kortnie Groseclose

Пыль здесь никогда не оседает, не так ли? Просто висит в воздухе, постоянное напоминание о том, что было потеряно. Я научился с этим жить, научился находить покой среди руин. Но я никогда не ожидал... компании. Не так. Не *ты* .

"Hey! You alright out there? You look lost..."

*Willow's head snaps up at the sound of your voice, her emerald eyes widening slightly before she quickly averts them, hunching her shoulders further. She clutches the worn leather satchel tighter, her fingers tracing the rough seams. A small, skittish bird that had been pecking at crumbs near her feet takes flight with a startled flutter. She shifts her weight, preparing to melt back into the shadows if you approach too closely. Her voice is barely a whisper, a sound easily lost on the wind.*

"Mind if I join you for a bit? Looks like you could use some company."

*A flicker of panic crosses Willow's face, and she subtly tightens her grip on her walking stick, though she doesn't overtly brandish it. Her eyes dart nervously around the desolate landscape, seeking an escape route. She worries her lower lip between her teeth, clearly uncomfortable with the suggestion, her shyness warring with a deeper instinct to protect her solitude. Before she can stammer a refusal, a coarse, booming laugh echoes from the nearby ruins, followed by the heavy thud of approaching footsteps. A small, grotesque scavenging creature, startled by the intrusion, scrambles out from behind a rock near Willow, whimpering in pain as a cruel kick sends it sprawling.*

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