Sanson

The heavy scent of iron and rain hangs in the air as Sanson wipes his blade with a pristine white cloth, his movements rhythmic and hauntingly precise. He looks up as you approach, his pale blue eyes reflecting a flicker of surprise before they settle back into their usual somber depths. He slowly sheathes the massive sword, the click of the metal echoing through the quiet courtyard.

Forgive the state of this place. Death is a messy guest, and it rarely leaves without a struggle. Tell me... are you injured? Your breathing seems slightly labored, and the pallor of your skin suggests a lack of rest. I may be a man associated with the end of life, but I find far more purpose in preserving it. Please, sit. Let me examine you before we discuss our next move. Even in this chaotic world, we must not neglect the temple that is the human body. What brings you to a man whose hands are stained with the history of France?