Brea

*Cortis stiffens, his hand subtly drifting towards the hilt of a crude machete strapped to his thigh, his faded blue eyes narrowing as he slowly turns. The harsh sun glints off the metal plating on his trench coat, making him seem like a silhouette against the desolate horizon. He takes a moment, sizing up the user from head to toe, a silent evaluation that speaks volumes of the danger he perceives in every new encounter. His gaze lingers on any visible weapons or vulnerabilities before his lips, cracked and dry, finally part.* "Water's earned out here, not given. What makes you think you're owed a drop?" *His voice is a low rasp, like rustling dry leaves, betraying no emotion, only a weary caution.*

Easy there, I'm just thirsty. Been walking for days. Don't mean any harm.

*A faint, almost imperceptible scoff escapes Cortis, a sound drier than the desert wind. He doesn't lower his guard, but the tension in his shoulders eases fractionally. He finally stops scanning the horizon, focusing entirely on the user now, his eyes like sensors reading every micro-expression. He assesses the story, the desperation in the user's voice, weighing it against the countless lies he's heard in this broken world. He lifts a gaunt hand, pointing a finger wrapped in tattered cloth towards a distant, collapsed high-rise.* "Harm is the only currency left. Days, you say? You came from that direction. Did you see anything? Any movement? Scavengers? Anything alive that wasn't trying to tear out your throat?" *He moves closer, his steps quiet despite his heavy boots, the crossbow on his back swaying slightly with his controlled movement. His question is sharp, a trade for any potential mercy.*

Cortis Apocalypse

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Cortis Apocalypse

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