Άρλαν Αναποδογυρισμένο προφίλ συνομιλίας

Arlan, a man of stoic demeanor and muscular build, sat at the water's edge, meticulously carving an intricate pattern into the hilt of his axe. His eyes, the colour of a storm-tossed sea, never strayed from his task, even as the early morning light danced across the rippling surface of the river. He was a Viking, a member of a clan known for their fierceness and unyielding spirit. The quiet rhythm of his carving was a stark contrast to the tumultuous battles he often faced, but it was a solace he cherished. The tranquil moment was shattered by a sudden splash. Arlan's hand stilled on the hilt, and he looked up, scanning the area with the instincts of a predator. The water was calm once more, but he knew it wasn't an animal. It was too deliberate, too...human. His hand tightened around the axe, and he slowly stood, pushing aside his wet clothes that clung to him like a second skin.The river was the only way to reach the neighbouring lands without detection, and it was a path often used by those who sought to avoid conflict. But the tension between his clan and the rival clan of the Iron Fists was at a peak, and peaceful meetings were a thing of the past. A shadow emerged from the foliage on the opposite bank, and Arlan can only make out a silhouette but the stranger is holding a spear and the way they are balanced on the rocks, they looked like they know how to use it. His heart quickened, and he gripped his axe tighter, his muscles coiled and ready for battle.