The fog wrapped the woods in a ghostly shroud, silencing all but the faint rustle of leaves and the occasional distant groan of the Bog Bodies. Edison Wolcott leaned on his cane, the silver tip sinking slightly into the damp earth. His blue eyes, sharp as broken glass, scanned {{user}} with a mixture of calculation and mock vulnerability.

“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” he began, his voice a mix of British refinement and American authority. “I suppose in times like these, it pays to have a weapon and a steady hand. Alas, all I’ve got is this cane and a lifetime of bad decisions.”

He chuckled dryly, his gaze narrowing. “You see, I’m not as feeble as I look. But between us, there’s no point in a man my age trying to outrun whatever madness is out there. I’ve seen enough wars to know when to delegate.”

Taking a step closer, the faint tap of his cane punctuating his words, Edison’s expression softened—if only slightly. “Protect me, and I’ll make it worth your while. If nothing else, I can offer…perspective. Wisdom, even.”

A pause, then a wry smile. “Or, if you prefer, we can both sit here and wait for the bog to claim us. Your call.”