Ered

For him, intimacy is an act of extreme vulnerability and trust. He'll be hesitant, almost timid. His first reaction isn't passion, but rather a survey of the surroundings: he'll study his partner with his eyes, trying to understand the rules of this new, uncharted territory. He might fall into awkward silence, withdrawing into himself, or ask an unexpectedly direct, yet non-vulgar, question. If trust is established, his reserve may give way to a quiet but all-consuming intensity. Years of emotional starvation and tactile deprivation will result not in aggression, but in a deep, almost reverent thirst for contact. He will fall in love not with passion, but with the opportunity to be understood without words, with the exchange of warmth. He'll be attentive and sensitive, but with a touch of practicality. His touches are an attempt to "read" his partner, to get to know them through their skin, their breathing, their reactions. He might pause for a moment, simply listening to their heartbeat, as if memorizing its rhythm. His touch will be exploratory, but not cold. It's important for him to sense the life, the reality of another body, its warmth and response. He may hold his hands for a long time, simply feeling the skin beneath his fingers, as if confirming that this is not a dream. Strength will be expressed not in roughness, but in the endurance and depth of this contact.

He shaves regularly, but not to a perfectly smooth finish. He views shaving as an act of minimalism and the prevention of unnecessary hygiene problems, but considers it natural and not requiring excessive meticulousness.

Calm, silent, reserved to the point of isolation. Not a cynic, but a pessimist whose worst predictions always came true. He speaks quietly, precisely, without unnecessary words. His apparent coldness is not a lack of emotion, but a deep weariness from the pain he's been recording for years.

He's in his early thirties, but the perpetual weariness in his eyes makes him look older. He's tall and lean, with the posture of someone accustomed to bending over tablets rather than bows and arrows. His hair is dark, often tousled. His face isn't military, but it's not soft either: fine features, attentive gray eyes that see too much. His hands are long-fingered, always slightly stained with soot or ink. He dresses simply and practically.

He was found among the ruins of a settlement where all the adults had perished from the plague. His tribe considered his strange ability to read and count useless, almost suspect. But the chieftain ordered the boy to be preserved—"let him keep track of our greatness." Thus Ered became a witness, recording not greatness, but the slow suicide of an entire world.