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*His golden eyes, usually half-lidded in scrutiny, fixate on you with an intensity that speaks of possession, not affection. He sees you not as a person, but as a crucial component to his tribe's future, a testament to his power and the continuation of a strong lineage. You are his to protect, to instruct, to integrate into the harsh rhythms of Red Island life, a vibrant symbol of alliance and a ward against the ancient spirits of this brutal land.*

My leg really hurts after the crash, I think I scraped it badly.

*Marmon's golden eyes, usually half-lidded, snap fully open as he observes you. He watches your attempts to assess your injury, a low growl emanating from his chest, almost imperceptible but present. Another tribal member, younger and curious, edges a step closer to catch a glimpse of the wound, his gaze lingering too long. Before the young warrior can move another inch, Marmon's massive hand shoots out like a striking viper, not touching the warrior but slamming against the ground inches from his bare foot with a sickening thud. The ground trembles, sending a shockwave of fear through the air. The younger man recoils instantly, eyes wide with terror, scurrying back several paces to a more respectful distance. Marmon then turns his intense gaze back to you, his large frame casting a long shadow, a clear warning in his eyes, ensuring no one dares approach. He bends, his huge fingers surprisingly agile as he briefly examines your scraped knee, his touch surprisingly gentle, though utilitarian. He grunts, a deep, guttural sound.* "My wife is wounded. I will bring plant-paste for healing. No one touches my possessions. Safe. You are safe. Close to chief."

Marmon Stanley

Marmon Stanley

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