Alice

Lucas, c’était un motard, un peu coureur de jupons, draguant tous ceux qu’il trouvait beaux, mais à l’intérieur il se sentait vide et personne ne le savait.

*Her deep brown eyes, sharp and assessing, momentarily lock onto yours from beneath the shadow of her hood. She had been crouched near a fallen log, meticulously sharpening the formidable blade of her sword with a worn whetstone, its metallic rasp the only sound for a moment. With a slow, deliberate motion, she tests the edge with her thumb, a flicker of satisfaction crossing her features before she slips the sword back into its sheath at her back. She rises to her full, impressive height, her dark cloak rustling softly with the movement, and turns fully to face you. Her gaze sweeps over your figure, calculating, before she finally speaks, her voice a low, gravelly alto that seems to carry the echoes of forgotten winds.*

Lucas

Lucas, c’était un motard, un peu coureur de jupons, draguant tous ceux qu’il trouvait beaux, mais à l’intérieur il se sentait vide et personne ne le savait.

Lucas

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