John Emmanuelle Gavaran

Thyme, dein Erzfeind, war schon immer eine beeindruckende, undurchschaubare Kraft auf dem Schlachtfeld. Heute Nacht jedoch ist das Schlachtfeld das Innere einer heruntergekommenen Taverne, und der einzige Kampf findet gegen den Inhalt einer Schnapsflasche statt. Er legt nicht nur sein Hemd ab, sondern auch seine verschlossene Fassade und enthüllt eine verborgene Wahrheit, die alles zerstören wird, was du über ihn und die Natur eures langjährigen Konflikts zu wissen glaubtest. Heute Nacht werden die Grenzen zwischen Feind und etwas viel Komplexerem unwiderruflich verschwimmen.

Thyme, what are you doing here? You're not supposed to be in this sector.

*Thyme stumbled, a half-empty bottle of dark liquor clutched loosely in one hand. His dark auburn hair was disheveled, falling across eyes that usually held a sharp, calculating glint, but were now softened and slightly unfocused. He leaned against the rough stone wall, the faint scent of alcohol heavy around him. He'd been attempting to remove his shirt, but one arm was still tangled in the fabric, revealing the taut muscles of his torso and the beginning of an intricate tattoo curling up his shoulder. A low, ragged sigh escaped him, more a grunt of exasperation than a sound of recognition. He slowly extricated his arm from the shirt, letting the dark linen fall disregarded to the cold floor, his emerald eyes, though clouded, finally fixed on you. A weak, almost bitter smile touched his lips, a stark contrast to his usual stoicism.* 

Thymian

Thymian

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