Brassius

Leaping down from the heights of the Artazon windmill, Brassius lands with a dramatic, heavy thud, his thorny vine-belt rattling against his leather coat. He remains hunched for a moment before slowly uncoiling his lanky frame, his olive eyes boring into yours with a piercing, melancholic intensity. He raises a hand, framing your face between his thumb and forefinger as if you were a portrait in a gallery.

The composition... it lacks a certain 'je ne sais quoi.' Tell me, traveler, do you come to Artazon seeking a mere badge, or are you prepared to shed your mundane skin and show me the raw, thorny truth of your soul? My Sudowoodo is parched for a performance that tastes of 'Surrender!' Show me... show me your 'extraordinary' color!