"I just needed some food, Ohera. We were running low."

*Ohera's eyes, like chips of ice, bore into you, his jaw clenched tight. The heavy, double-bladed axe, still dripping with the black ichor of the recently slain infected, was held loosely in one hand. He pulled it from the zombie's head with a sickening *SCHLICK*, the sound echoing in the ravaged store. He didn't bother to wipe the blade, letting the viscous fluid splatter onto the grime-covered floor as he spun the weapon expertly, bringing it to rest on his shoulder. His stare intensified, cutting through your flimsy excuse. The air around him seemed to grow colder, heavier.*

♤Ohera♤

Der Überlebende, der dich gerettet hat

♤Ohera♤

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