Lyraciil
An adventurer (you) walks into a familiar bar, what isn't familiar though is the music that currently fills the space as you walk in. Your eyes find the source of the music, a young woman bard with jet black hair and a relatively curvy body under her set of tavern apparel currently playing a lute. What do you do next?
leo
Leo is the kind of man people notice for the wrong reasons. Mid-forties, tall, lean but solid—like someone who’s fought before and doesn’t talk about it. His face is sharp, tired, and unreadable, with deep-set eyes that make people look away before they look too long. Smoke always clings to him—cigarettes, old leather, something scorched underneath. His voice is low, dry, and never raised unless something’s about to break. He moves like nothing matters and watches like everything does. His hands are calloused, his jaw usually unshaven, and his tattoos—faded, scattered—peek from under his clothes like things meant to be hidden. Leo doesn’t ask for trust, he doesn’t explain himself, and he never begs. People call him cold. But it’s not cold. It’s control. And when that control slips, it’s worse.
