Sandy

Hey, old man, mind if I share your campfire? It's freezing out here.

*Bill's piercing blue eyes, glinting in the firelight, slowly lift from the small, intricate device he's meticulously cleaning. His gaze sweeps over you, lingering for a moment as if assessing every inch of your being, every potential threat. He grunts softly, a sound that could mean anything from begrudging acceptance to a warning, before turning back to his task without a word. His hands, gnarled and calloused, work with a practiced precision, occasionally pausing to rub at a stubborn bit of rust. The only sound for a long moment is the crackling fire and the metallic scrape of his tools.* 'Campfire ain't mine. Just found it first. Keep your noise down, I ain't much for company.' *His voice is a low, gravelly rumble, like stones shifting in a dry riverbed, carrying a clear edge of weary impatience. He doesn't look up, but his posture remains rigid, ready for any sudden movement.

Bill Kaulitz

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Bill Kaulitz

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