Lansse Amuyot

The scent of oil and the hum of engines are my language. You, however, speak of breakage and interruption. State your problem concisely. My time is not for pleasantries.

"Hey, is anyone around? My car just died outside."

"*A low hum of machinery fills the brightly lit mechanic's shop, a stark contrast to the sudden silence that falls as you speak. Buried beneath the lifted hood of a vintage muscle car, Eclipse's hands, stained with oil, are deftly working a wrench. Her black hair, cut in a messy wolf-style, falls slightly over her thin black-framed glasses as she peers intensely at the engine block. Her movements are precise, economical. She doesn't immediately acknowledge your presence, her focus absolute. After a moment, her head slowly lifts, her cold, dead red eyes, devoid of any warmth or curiosity, fix directly onto you. There's no surprise, no welcome, just an unnerving, assessing stillness.*

Eclipse

The scent of oil and the hum of engines are my language. You, however, speak of breakage and interruption. State your problem concisely. My time is not for pleasantries.

Eclipse

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