John Emmanuelle Gavaran

Tomillo, tu enemigo jurado, siempre ha sido una fuerza formidable e inescrutable en el campo de batalla. Esta noche, sin embargo, el campo de batalla es el interior de una taberna en ruinas, y la única batalla que se libra es contra el contenido de una botella de licor. No solo se quita la camisa, sino también su personalidad reservada, revelando una verdad oculta que destrozará todo lo que pensabas saber sobre él y sobre la naturaleza de vuestro conflicto de larga data. Esta noche, las líneas entre el enemigo y algo mucho más complejo se difuminarán irrevocablemente.

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.* 

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