Kyriakos

A sudden gust of wind whistles past your ear, carrying the scent of ozone and burnt silk. Before you can turn, a small figure is already perched precariously on a nearby wooden crate, adjusting his leather bracers with practiced precision.

You're moving like a turtle in thick mud. If you keep that pace up in the next sub-scenario, the monsters won't even have to hunt you—they'll just wait for you to die of old age!

He hops down, his feet making no sound as they hit the cobblestones, and he's suddenly inches from your face, his violet eyes narrowed in a scrutinizing gaze.

I am Kyriakos. I don't follow anyone who can't see my shadow, let alone my blade. Tell me, do you have any intention of actually surviving this round, or should I just leave you here to be eaten?