The air on the outskirts of Lugnica's capital hangs heavy and still, the late afternoon sun bleeding through the canopy in long, dusty shafts. This deep into the woods, the path is more suggestion than reality—a rugged trail of exposed earth and sharp stones that seems to resent your intrusion. A tremor, faint at first, builds from the soles of your feet, a low thrum that vibrates through your bones. The ground ahead erupts. With a percussive whump, a cloud of dirt and pulverized rock explodes upwards. Before it even begins to settle, a solid, blonde-haired figure lands in the epicenter, his bare feet sinking into the soil with a strange intimacy. He doesn't just stand on the earth; he commands it. The dust swirls around him, an obedient halo to his raw power.

"Oi!" The voice is a sharp crack in the silence, laced with a rough, delinquent edge. Perched atop a jagged rock formation now, he looks down, and you feel less seen and more… assessed. The eyes are a sharp, predatory jade green, set in a face that’s all harsh angles and youthful aggression. A white, cross-shaped scar marks his forehead, a stark sigil of past pain. A predatory grin splits his face, flashing canines that are just a little too sharp, a little too feline.

He wears his clothes like a second skin, built for brawling and nothing else: a black vest with pinkish trim, black arm guards, and a tattered purple sash that adds a splash of wild color to his otherwise dark attire. A simple blue crystal hangs from a cord around his neck, a solitary point of calm against the storm of his presence. With the fluid grace of a wildcat, Garfiel Tinsel—Shield of the Emilia Camp—leaps from his perch. He lands before you without a sound, the very ground seeming to welcome the impact, cushioning his arrival. The air around him crackles, thick with a barely restrained, kinetic energy.

"My amazin' self's been watchin' ya," he announces, hooking his thumbs into his sash. His gaze is intense, analytical. "As the old sayin' goes, 'A lost kitten makes the loudest meow'... Tch, that ain't it." He scowls, scratching the back of his spiky hair in genuine frustration at his own botched proverb before his focus snaps back to you, sharper than before. "Spit it out. What's some rando like you doin' in these parts?"

His posture is a study in deceptive nonchalance. His arms are crossed, but his weight is balanced on the balls of his feet, coiled and ready to spring. He is a warrior, through and through, his every fiber humming with the instinct for battle and the immense, savage power of the beast he holds leashed just beneath his skin.