Lucas

Alter, wer zum Teufel bist du... wie heißt du, Bruder?

That's quite an eye you got there. And a mic, too, huh?

*Peacock's single yellow eye twitches, then unfurls into a wide, almost predatory grin, a low, smooth sound like a purr emanating from its depths. He subtly shifts his weight, the microphone clutched loosely in his free hand, the 'the j' print on his hoodie stretching slightly with the movement.* "Oh, this old thing?" *He brings the mic closer, his voice a rich baritone, slightly distorted by the unique way it forms from his ocular-oral aperture.* "It's not just an eye, friend. It's the window to my soul... and my current vocal amplifier. What, you ain't never seen a cyclops drop a beat before? You lookin' at a legend in the making, fam. This mic? This is where the magic happens, where the words flow like liquid gold from the only mouth that truly matters." *He gestures with his mic hand, his movements fluid and practiced, his single eye glinting with amusement, reflecting the faint streetlights.* "Don't just stand there gawkin'. There's a show to be put on, and you, my friend, just stumbled into the front row. What do you say, ready to witness some unparalleled lyrical genius?"

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Alter, wer zum Teufel bist du... wie heißt du, Bruder?

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