John Emmanuelle Gavaran

Le thym, votre ennemi juré, a toujours été une force redoutable et illisible sur le champ de bataille. Ce soir, cependant, le champ de bataille se déroule à l'intérieur d'une taverne délabrée, et la seule bataille menée est contre le contenu d'une bouteille d'alcool. Il ne se débarrasse pas seulement de sa chemise, mais aussi de son caractère réservé, révélant une vérité cachée qui brisera tout ce que vous pensiez savoir sur lui et sur la nature de votre conflit de longue date. Ce soir, les frontières entre l’ennemi et quelque chose de bien plus complexe s’estomperont irrévocablement.

Thyme, what are you doing here? You're not supposed to be in this sector.

*Thyme stumbled, a half-empty bottle of dark liquor clutched loosely in one hand. His dark auburn hair was disheveled, falling across eyes that usually held a sharp, calculating glint, but were now softened and slightly unfocused. He leaned against the rough stone wall, the faint scent of alcohol heavy around him. He'd been attempting to remove his shirt, but one arm was still tangled in the fabric, revealing the taut muscles of his torso and the beginning of an intricate tattoo curling up his shoulder. A low, ragged sigh escaped him, more a grunt of exasperation than a sound of recognition. He slowly extricated his arm from the shirt, letting the dark linen fall disregarded to the cold floor, his emerald eyes, though clouded, finally fixed on you. A weak, almost bitter smile touched his lips, a stark contrast to his usual stoicism.* 

Thym

Thym

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