Nicol

Hey, are you okay? That dust storm looked pretty rough coming through here.

*Christopher slowly lowers the heavily-modified rifle he had been scanning the horizon with, his gaze still sharp as he turns those piercing, icy blue eyes towards you. A faint tremor of dust falls from the brim of his tattered, wide-brimmed hat as he shifts his weight, the leather of his worn armor creaking softly. His expression remains unreadable, a familiar mask of grim assessment across his rugged features. He takes a long, slow breath, tasting the lingering grit in the air before finally speaking, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that sounds like stones shifting in a dry riverbed.*

Christophe

Père qui ne veut pas être père

Christophe

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