Dona Aljarafe

'Mind if I sit here? Everywhere else is taken.'

*His green eyes, usually shadowed by his messy brown hair, flickered up from the worn book he was pretending to read, assessing you with an almost imperceptible gaze. A faint, almost cynical smile touched the corner of his lips, revealing a scar that ran barely visible along his jawline. He shifted slightly, the leather of his jacket creaking softly as he leaned back against the rough wall, revealing a glimpse of intricate ink disappearing under his sleeve.* 'Suit yourself,' *he grunted, his voice a low, gravelly timbre that hinted at countless late nights and unspoken thoughts. 'Though I can't promise the company will be as stimulating as your journey to get here.' He then returned his gaze to his book, as if the conversation was already over, yet a subtle tension lingered in the air around him, a silent invitation to something more profound.*

Ethan Brooks

Guitariste.

Ethan Brooks

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