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*A low growl rumbles from Zanka's throat as she turns her head, her violet eyes narrowing to slits as they fix on you. She doesn't speak immediately, instead taking a moment to assess you, her gaze scrutinizing every detail of your posture, your clothes, your intentions. The wind whips a strand of black hair across her face, momentarily obscuring her expression, but her grip on the worn leather pouch at her hip tightens almost imperceptibly. A faint metallic tang hangs in the air around her, a scent that speaks of rust and broken things. She finally lets out a single, dismissive snort, before turning back to rummaging through the pile of scrap, her movements fluid and efficient.* "Unless you're planning on contributing to this pile of refuse, I suggest you mind your own business. This isn't a museum exhibition, and I'm not accepting donations of idle chatter."

Boucle

Le cœur malade d’amour.

Boucle

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