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And how they can lose their tempers?

Well, I suppose that stigma doesn't necessarily hold true with any of the other Council races. And, I contest to the fact that's slightly prejudice of me because there's also the Russian proverb which states there was never a saint with red hair. And the Greek myth that redheads turn into Vampires when they die.

Neither of those are evidently true.

Shepard died once, and up until that point he hadn't tried biting me. Er, well, he had yet to try sucking the blood from my veins.

And he was probably the closest damn thing to my own vision of what a saint should be.

But, for the billions of humans living around the galaxy, they should understand what I mean when I say that redheads are thought to have volatile and disorderly emotions. For in that instant standing solemnly in the seedy, shrill barracks of Aria T'Loak's secret bunker, the very bunker we were planning to sabotage Cerberus from- sabotage Oleg Petrovsky, my mentor, the man I once loved more than I could ever love my own father- I sincerely believed Shepard had thrown an embolus.

His face contorted with rage as he chucked one of his gauntlets across the hall. It rapped against the tin frame of a bunk like a brass gong, and silenced the chatter of others. A heavy silence grew, but under our sharp glares, the other occupants fizzled out of our business like teenagers at a crashed party. Shepard's biotics flared and settled. His scars glared an angry crimson. A shade I had not seen in a very long time.

And I found myself wondering if it was partially my fault.

Ernest Shepard belongs to me
Miranda Lawson and Mass Effect belongs to Bioware

Description
And how they can lose their tempers?

Well, I suppose that stigma doesn't necessarily hold true with any of the other Council races. And, I contest to the fact that's slightly prejudice of me because there's also the Russian proverb which states there was never a saint with red hair. And the Greek myth that redheads turn into Vampires when they die.

Neither of those are evidently true.

Shepard died once, and up until that point he hadn't tried biting me. Er, well, he had yet to try sucking the blood from my veins.

And he was probably the closest damn thing to my own vision of what a saint should be.

But, for the billions of humans living around the galaxy, they should understand what I mean when I say that redheads are thought to have volatile and disorderly emotions. For in that instant standing solemnly in the seedy, shrill barracks of Aria T'Loak's secret bunker, the very bunker we were planning to sabotage Cerberus from- sabotage Oleg Petrovsky, my mentor, the man I once loved more than I could ever love my own father- I sincerely believed Shepard had thrown an embolus.

His face contorted with rage as he chucked one of his gauntlets across the hall. It rapped against the tin frame of a bunk like a brass gong, and silenced the chatter of others. A heavy silence grew, but under our sharp glares, the other occupants fizzled out of our business like teenagers at a crashed party. Shepard's biotics flared and settled. His scars glared an angry crimson. A shade I had not seen in a very long time.

And I found myself wondering if it was partially my fault.

Ernest Shepard belongs to me
Miranda Lawson and Mass Effect belongs to Bioware