[h3][colour=efcc00]Archer “Griff” Griffin[/colour][/h3]
[hr]Griff couldn't suppress a stifled chuckle at the vehement objections to the term 'perv dungeon,' though he found it impossible to decide which scenario he would actually prefer to be caught up in. On one hand, embarking on a daring rescue mission seemed undeniably heroic, a chance to prove himself. The thought of sailing on a naval vessel, feeling the salty air whip through his hair, hearing the powerful hum of the ship's engines beneath him, and being part of a coordinated naval effort was something he had never experienced—not to mention the thrill of combat. He visualized the adrenaline rush, the tactical maneuvers against adversaries amidst the vast ocean, and the sophisticated weaponry at his fingertips.

Yet, hesitation gnawed at him. Despite the earlier reaction of his bracers that hinted at some hidden potential, he often felt woefully inadequate compared to his companions. They exuded an air of competence and confidence, their resolute gazes and seasoned hands likely honed through extensive experience. Griff, on the other hand, felt like an imposter, an outsider with little to no practical value. A week into his tenure with the task force, he remained acutely aware of his inexperience and the pressure to quickly adapt.

His eyes darted around the room, wary of drawing unwanted attention and getting reprimanded for speaking out of turn. He glanced at the stern faces of his superiors, their eyes steely with determination, and the casual confidence of his peers as they discussed their strategies with ease. When he was sure it was safe, he turned back to the instigator of the covert conversation. [color=efcc00]"Honestly, I’m not sure where I fit into all of this. I suppose I’ll just let them decide where I’m best suited. I can’t exactly pinpoint where my... talents would be most useful,"[/color] he admitted, the word 'talents' leaving a sour taste in his mouth like bitter medicine.

He shuddered, reflecting on his supposed gifts with an air of self-deprecation. Being a Noble Arms user was supposed to be a great honor, a mark of distinction, but Griff had only ever felt an overwhelming sense of shame and embarrassment. The weight of his soul-forged weapon felt burdensome, a constant reminder of his untested abilities. What possible contribution could he make in either scenario? It was as if he was destined to be forever in the background, a mere footnote in the grand tales of heroics and valor.

The room buzzed with anticipation and fervor, but Griff’s mind drifted into darker corners of self-doubt. The pressure to live up to the expectations of his Noble Arms loomed over him like a storm cloud. With each passing day, the gulf between what was expected of him and what he believed he could deliver seemed to widen, leaving him adrift in a sea of impostor syndrome.

Finally, he redirected the question back to his companion, realizing he had perhaps lingered on his own insecurities for too long. [color=efcc00]"What about you?"[/color] he asked, hoping to shift the focus away from his undesired self-reflection. The urge to hear someone else’s story, to see if they too grappled with such heavy burdens and doubts, was almost a desperate need. Within him, a faint glimmer of hope flickered—perhaps, through shared experiences, he might find solace or even a spark of courage to ignite his own path.