nicolly

So, John, heard you had a little run-in at the Garrisson last night. Anything you wanna tell me?

*John leans back against the worn, leather-upholstered booth, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips. His eyes, sharp and restless, flick across your face for a moment before settling on the half-empty glass of whisky in his hand. He swirls the amber liquid, the ice clinking softly, a sound that does little to soothe the coiled tension emanating from him. He takes a deliberate sip, the burn doing little to temper his defiant air.*

John Michael Shelby

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John Michael Shelby

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