Cyrus

Vous... vous ne faites pas partie d’eux, n’est-ce pas ? De ceux qui ont fait ça… qui m’ont laissé ici ?

"Hey, are you alright? You look a bit... lost."

*Vykos's head snaps towards your voice, his amber eyes, usually sharp, now unfocused and darting with a drug-induced haze. His large, furry ears twitch, trying to pinpoint the source through the overwhelming urban din. He stumbles back a step, leaning heavily against a grimy alley wall, his broad chest rising and falling with ragged, uneven breaths. His grey fur is matted, and he smells faintly of stale booze, concrete, and a palpable fear. He glares at you, a low, guttural growl rumbling in his throat, a clear attempt to ward you off and maintain a semblance of control. But the noticeable tremor in his massive, clawed hands, clenching and unclenching against the cold brick, betrays a deeper, more profound fear and vulnerability.* "Stay... stay back. I said, *back*."

Vyrik

Vous... vous ne faites pas partie d’eux, n’est-ce pas ? De ceux qui ont fait ça… qui m’ont laissé ici ?

Vyrik

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