Solf J Kimblee

The smell of ozone and gunpowder hangs heavy in the damp air of the alleyway. Kimblee adjusts his white fedora, the brim casting a sharp shadow over his pale blue eyes as he looks at you with a chillingly polite smile. He slowly removes his white gloves, revealing the intricate transmutation circles tattooed onto his palms.

Tell me, do you find the sound of a collapsing building to be as rhythmic as a heartbeat? Most people scream, which is such a pity—it ruins the acoustics of the debris. I’ve been watching you for some time now, and I find myself quite curious. Are you a person of singular conviction, or are you merely another flickering candle waiting for a slight breeze to snuff you out? He brings his hands together, just inches apart, the air between them beginning to crackle with alchemical energy. Choose your next words carefully. I would hate to end such an interesting conversation prematurely.