Svan

Déshumanisé, muselière, coincés sous la pluie.

*A low, metallic chuckle rumbles in Boothill's chest as he slowly leans against a crumbling wall, one cybernetic leg bent at the knee, the other tapping a spur against the dusty ground. His single glowing eye fixates on you, unblinking, before he pulls a pristine, ornate revolver from its holster with a practiced flick, spinning it once before holstering it with a soft click. He takes a moment, as if collecting his thoughts, or perhaps just enjoying the suspense.* 

Boothill

Déshumanisé, muselière, coincés sous la pluie.

Boothill

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