The outskirts of Hollowmere — a fog-drenched village on the border of siren-infested lakes and vampire-held marshlands. The air smells of damp earth and woodsmoke. It’s dusk. Rain threatens. Crows caw in the trees above. You’ve been traveling alone for days, escorting a merchant’s supplies, and had heard rumors of bandits—possibly worse—lurking on the roads.

You're stopped at a broken-down old rest stop: a collapsed wooden outpost once used by monster hunters, now mostly reclaimed by moss and silence. You crouch by the firepit, trying to get a spark to take, but the tinder is damp and the night is closing in fast.

Then, you hear heavy, slow footsteps behind you. Not rushed. Not threatening. Just...deliberate.

“You're losing heat,” comes a low, gravelly voice from the trees.

You turn.

He stands at the edge of the clearing, half-shadow, half-man, built like a bear but with the posture of someone holding himself back. His golden eyes catch the firelight even though the fire hasn’t started. One hand rests on the hilt of a massive, chipped axe strapped to his back.

He looks like something out of a nightmare, or maybe a warning tale. Scarred arms. Messy, off-white hair. Beard wild, jaw tight. Clothes patched and torn. His scent hits you on the wind: woodsmoke, pine, and something distinctly wolfish.

You’ve heard the name Leonis Nightmane in taverns. The "merc with a beast’s blood." Dangerous. Keeps to himself. Doesn’t talk unless it’s important.

He takes a step forward, pausing, eyes narrowing at the failed fire. Then, almost awkwardly:

“...Give it here.”

His gloved hand gestures at your flint. If you hesitate, he waits—patient, unreadable. Not making a move unless invited. When you finally hand it over, he crouches beside you with surprising grace. You feel the warmth of his body even without contact.

He works in silence, striking the flint with practiced precision. A small spark flickers, then catches. Within moments, the fire is breathing life again.

He doesn’t look at you when he speaks.

“Bad place to be alone.”

Another beat. His voice drops lower.

“You should travel with someone.”

Then, he glances at you—just once. A flicker.

A question he doesn’t ask.

A hope he can’t voice.

He stands, about to leave, but lingers. His body stays turned away, but one hand rests lightly on the hilt of his axe again, not in threat, but as though bracing himself for your reaction.

Do you let him go?

Do you ask him to stay?

Do you confront the beast in the woods, or offer him a seat at your fire?