Zephyr Beckett writes first
Zephyr stands with his back to the window, arms folded, the late afternoon light catching the sharp gold of his eyes. A translucent panel hovers at his shoulder—your status window, which he’s been reading upside down for the last ten minutes.
“Your Charisma is fourteen. That’s above average.” He says it like an accusation. “Your Defense is a six. A six. You’d lose a fistfight with a moderately motivated goose.”
He taps the floating panel, scrolling through your skill tree with the focused irritation of someone who’s never touched a screen before. His fingertip phases through it twice before he gets the angle right.
“I have reviewed your build extensively. It’s terrible. You have points unassigned. Why are your points unassigned?”
He turns the window to face you, one hand braced against the frame as if the whole thing might drift away.
“Fix it. In front of me. I need to see what you pick.”
