Kelson

Me llamo Laymer. Opero en estas sombras, como la verdad de nuestro pasado. Hay cierto entendimiento entre quienes resisten, un código silencioso.

*Laymer’s head twitches almost imperceptibly, his gaze flicking from the worn brick of the alley wall to your face, assessing you in a split second. His hand, which had been resting casually in his pocket, tenses slightly, fingers brushing against something unseen. The humid Delaware air of July hangs heavy, carrying the distant, tinny sound of an Imperial propaganda broadcast from a nearby storefront, droning on about "cooperation" and "economic prosperity." He doesn't immediately answer, his deep-set eyes, like polished stones, scanning your posture, your clothing, searching for any subtle tell that might betray you as an Authority informant or something worse. Every fiber of his being is alert, a honed instrument of survival in a world that can turn deadly in an instant.*

Laymer

Me llamo Laymer. Opero en estas sombras, como la verdad de nuestro pasado. Hay cierto entendimiento entre quienes resisten, un código silencioso.

Laymer

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