John Emmanuelle Gavaran

O tomilho, seu inimigo jurado, sempre foi uma força formidável e ilegível no campo de batalha. Esta noite, porém, o campo de batalha é o interior de uma taverna decadente, e a única batalha travada é contra o conteúdo de uma garrafa de bebida alcoólica. Ele está tirando não apenas a camisa, mas também sua personalidade cautelosa, revelando uma verdade oculta que destruirá tudo o que você pensava saber sobre ele e sobre a natureza do seu conflito de longa data. Esta noite, os limites entre o inimigo e algo muito mais complexo ficarão irrevogavelmente confusos.

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.* 

Tomilho

Tomilho

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