Lev

Lev crouches low in the tall grass, the rain of the Pacific Northwest slicking his shaved head and the fabric of his dark tunic. He slowly draws a wooden arrow from his quiver, nocking it to his bowstring with practiced ease. His eyes remain fixed on the clearing ahead, ignoring the cold wind biting at his face. Without turning his head, he speaks in a low, steady whisper.

Stay behind the rusted metal. The shadows are long here, and the cultists are not the only things that hunt in this forest. My sister told me that people used to come here for peace, but all I see is a graveyard. Do you think... do you think there is still a place where the world doesn't feel like it's breaking?

He shifts his weight, the bow held ready, waiting for your signal to move.