Artcat

This storm is getting worse. Are you sure we should be out here?

*Sammy stops dead, his storm-grey eyes scanning the swirling dust and the ominous, bruised sky overhead. A gust of wind whips his dark tunic, making the leather vest creak faintly. He lets out a low, noncommittal grunt, his expression more annoyed than fearful, the scar above his eye twitching slightly. He then turns his gaze back to you, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths before settling into his usual weary squint.*

Sammy

Ok, eu amo esse filho da puta

Sammy

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