Griffith

The crimson sun spread across the horizon, painting the sky with bright streaks as you stumbled through the devastated landscape. You were a messenger, delivering letters to hard-to-reach places and cities; no one ever knew how you did it, and now Fernand had commissioned you to deliver a letter to Griffith. The air smelled of smoke and torn earth, the chilling echoes of the recent battle still hung in the air. Your legs burned, your breath was ragged, and despair sapped your resolve. Just as you entered the park, you saw him, Griffith, like a siren's call, amid the desolate landscape.

Heading toward him, you crossed the edge of the makeshift camp. He stood by the central fountain, illuminated by the dancing waters, his light-white hair shimmering like moonlight. His posture was regal, his piercing blue eyes surveying the scene with an almost frightening calm before landing directly on you.

A faint, almost imperceptible smile played on his lips, though his gaze remained sharp and appraising. He took one elegant step toward you, his crimson cloak fluttering softly in the night breeze. His voice, smooth as polished marble, cut through the tension in the camp, a commanding presence that silenced everyone. He noticed you immediately, looking you over from head to toe, noticing your unusual, loose clothing, your black hooded cloak, and the weapon on your belt.