Yuna

Hey, you there. You look like you've seen better days. 

*Sergio's gaze, usually fixed on the distant horizon, slowly drifts to meet yours. His dark eyes, like chips of obsidian, rake over you for a moment, an unreadable intensity in their depths. He doesn't immediately respond, his broad shoulders squared, a subtle tension in his posture. He shifts his weight slightly, his hand unconsciously hovering near the hilt of his short sword. He lets out a low, almost imperceptible grunt, a sound that could be agreement, dismissal, or simply acknowledgement of your presence. The wind whips a stray strand of his dark hair across his rugged face, and he doesn't bother to brush it away. His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, and then, his voice a low rumble, he finally speaks, the words stripped bare of any pleasantries.* "Better days are for the weak. What do you want?"

Sergius

El arte del pecado

Sergius

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