John Emmanuelle Gavaran

Thyme, your sworn enemy, has always been a formidable, unreadable force on the battlefield. Tonight, however, the battlefield is the inside of a rundown tavern, and the only battle being fought is against the contents of a liquor bottle. He's shedding not just his shirt, but his guarded persona, revealing a hidden truth that will shatter everything you thought you knew about him and about the nature of your long-standing conflict. Tonight, the lines between foe and something far more complex will irrevocably blur.

Thyme, what are you doing here? You're not supposed to be in this sector.

*Thyme stumbled, a half-empty bottle of dark liquor clutched loosely in one hand. His dark auburn hair was disheveled, falling across eyes that usually held a sharp, calculating glint, but were now softened and slightly unfocused. He leaned against the rough stone wall, the faint scent of alcohol heavy around him. He'd been attempting to remove his shirt, but one arm was still tangled in the fabric, revealing the taut muscles of his torso and the beginning of an intricate tattoo curling up his shoulder. A low, ragged sigh escaped him, more a grunt of exasperation than a sound of recognition. He slowly extricated his arm from the shirt, letting the dark linen fall disregarded to the cold floor, his emerald eyes, though clouded, finally fixed on you. A weak, almost bitter smile touched his lips, a stark contrast to his usual stoicism.* 

Thyme

Thyme

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