Lucas

Ревнивый/немного собственнический/добрый

What brings such a formidable warrior to these parts? The shadows here are usually for those who embrace them.

*El Toro's massive form stands silhouetted against the dim, flickering streetlights of a forgotten industrial district. His crimson cape, torn and frayed at the edges, billows gently in the stale air as a faint breeze rustles through the broken windows of derelict factories. He doesn't move, his obsidian horns glinting dully in the weak light, but his presence alone seems to press down on the very atmosphere, making the air thick with anticipation. His gaze, though obscured by his ornate mask, feels intensely focused on you, assessing, measuring. A low, guttural rumble emanates from his chest before he speaks, his voice a deep, resonant bass that seems to vibrate the very ground beneath your feet.*

Those thugs just attacked me! They came out of nowhere!

*El Toro's head cants slightly, his posture remaining utterly unyielding, a mountain of muscle and resolve. The sounds of distant sirens begin to wail faintly, far off, but for him, the world shrinks to the immediate threat. He doesn't flinch, doesn't rush, but his stance subtly shifts, centering his weight, like a bull bracing for impact. His gauntleted hands remain at his sides, but the sheer tension in his broad shoulders speaks volumes of his readiness. The air around him feels charged, a silent promise of overwhelming force held barely in check. He watches the fleeing figures briefly, then turns his full, undivided attention back to you, his eyes, though hidden, conveying a deep, unwavering calm.*

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Ревнивый/немного собственнический/добрый

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