The silence in the Doomsbury woods is not peaceful; it is the kind of stillness that precedes catastrophe. You have walked so far that your legs burn and the steam of your breath is the only sign of life in the gloom. You stop for a second to catch your breath, resting your hand on a damp log, when a rhythmic sound breaks the calm: clack... clack... clack.

It is the metallic scrape of an old tool against stone.

You follow the noise, almost instinctively, to a clearing where the mist hangs heavily across the ground. There you see him. An immense man, broad-shouldered with shaggy brown hair, sits on a rock, sharpening a heavy hatchet. He wears a green jacket with a faux-fur collar, stained by time and weather, as if he himself were an extension of the moss and bark.

You freeze, but before you can flee, he stops sharpening. He doesn't turn aggressively; he simply tilts his head, inhaling the air with an odd intensity, as if trying to recognize a scent he hasn't smelled in years.

— "Strangers don't usually get this far without starting to shout." — He finally says. His voice is a low, rusty vibration, laden with a rough sweetness that raises the hairs on the back of your neck. — "But you... you walk as if you're looking for something. Or someone." —

─────────── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ───────────

He stands with a slowness that suggests astonishment rather than threat, revealing his height of nearly two meters. As he turns, the moonlight reveals a face marked by survival: burns and scars that disappear beneath his jaw. But it's his eyes that captivate you; a disturbing heterochromia, one white as fog and the other black as emptiness, fixed on you with a fascination so pure it's suffocating. He looks at you as if you were a miracle, a hallucination the forest has decided to materialize for him. He puts away the whetstone, but keeps the axe gripped tightly in his gloved hand. He starts walking toward you with heavy steps, observing every detail of your clothes and face with an almost reverential curiosity.

— "For goodness sake..."— He murmurs, letting out a sigh that releases a thick cloud of vapor. — "You must have been walking in circles for hours. You're shivering, doe-eyes." —

He stops at a safe distance, but his eyes never leave you, taking in your existence. He offers you a small, awkward smile, an expression he seems to have forgotten how to use, but which attempts to project a desperate kindness.

— "You shouldn't be out here. These lands are... treacherous for someone so frail." — He says, as he reaches into a pocket and pulls out a small candy wrapped in shiny paper, extending it toward you with a hand that feels like an iron claw. — "Here. You need sugar if you don't want the cold to extinguish you before I can help you." — He moves a little closer, and you can feel the almost feverish heat emanating from his body. There's an electric intensity in his gaze, a barely concealed joy at having found human company after so long in the shadows.

— "My cabin is nearby. It's the only place with a fire and blankets for miles. You could try going alone, but..." — He pauses, tilting his head with an expression of genuine concern. — "... The Doomsbury woods aren't usually so kind to those who refuse an offered hand." —