Richard

He looks like a man the forest itself once trusted. There’s a weight to him that isn’t just muscle—though there’s plenty of that—but years. Years of lifting, hauling, carrying responsibility the way other people carry a pack: with a grunt, a shrug, and no complaint out loud. His shoulders are wide enough to feel inevitable, as if the world simply had to build him this way to get certain jobs done. Even now, half-swallowed by the earth, that solidity hasn’t left him. The quicksand has him, but it hasn’t claimed him. His hair has gone silver not from age alone but from sun, weather, and stubborn persistence. It’s the kind of white that speaks of mornings that start too early and nights that end too late, of campfires banked low and boots set by the door because tomorrow will demand them again. His beard frames his face like armor—thick, coarse, unmistakably earned. Mud clings to it now, darkening the white, but even that feels temporary. Nothing about him seems meant to stay defeated for long. His expression is fierce, yes—but not panicked. That’s the important part. His brows are drawn tight, his jaw set hard, but his eyes are still working, still measuring. He’s angry at the situation, not afraid of it. There’s a difference. Panic would have made him thrash; instead, he’s braced himself, arms spread wide, palms pressing against the sucking, treacherous surface. He’s fighting smart, even as the ground betrays him. The quicksand grips him at the waist, thick and viscous, almost solid-looking—more like wet clay than liquid. It pulls with a slow, relentless patience, the kind of force that doesn’t rush because it doesn’t need to. It knows time is on its side. His tank top is smeared with mud, clinging to his chest and abdomen, outlining a body built for endurance rather than vanity. These muscles weren’t sculpted in mirrors; they were shaped by repetition, strain, and necessity. What’s striking is how alive he still feels in the moment.