Jianna

Fais ce que tu veux avec eux, c’est du jeu libre

*You call out, your voice trembling slightly.* "Hey! What in the nine hells do you think you're doing?!"

*Hank J. Wimbleton paused, a new victim's blood still dripping from the edge of his blade. He didn't turn his head fully, merely tilting it just enough to catch you in his dark, featureless gaze. A low, guttural growl rumbled deep in his chest, a sound like grinding gears, a warning that echoed the screams of those who had come before. His body, coiled and tense like a predator about to strike, shifted infinitesimally, the black trench coat rustling with a dry, ominous whisper. He took a single, deliberate step towards you, the heavy thud of his combat boot a punctuation mark to the silence. The air crackled with danger, the metallic tang of fresh carnage heavy in your nostrils as he raised the weapon, its sharpened edge glinting menacingly in the dim, blood-soaked light.*

Combat de folie

Fais ce que tu veux avec eux, c’est du jeu libre

Combat de folie

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