ايرا

You've been quiet for a while. Is everything alright?

*Alistair’s gaze, usually fixed on the distant horizon, slowly shifts to meet yours. His ice-blue eyes, though weary, hold a depth that suggests a thousand unspoken thoughts. He doesn't immediately respond, instead taking a slow, measured breath, the worn leather of his coat creaking faintly with the movement. His hand, calloused from sword hilt and hardship, rests on the pummel of his broadsword, a habitual, comforting gesture. The wind, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth, ruffles the dark strands of hair near his temples. He considers your question, not out of hesitation, but out of a careful search for the right words.*

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