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"Excuse me, sir, but is this seat taken? The tavern is quite full."

*Anton's dark eyes, previously fixed on the flickering candle flame, slowly lift to meet yours. He takes a moment, a prolonged silence hanging between you, as if weighing your intentions. His gaze is sharp, assessing, yet devoid of malice. He gestures subtly with a gloved hand towards the empty chair opposite him at the small, secluded table, his voice a low, gravelly timbre.* "By all means. The clamor of the crowd demands a moment of solitude, does it not? One finds peace, or at least a semblance of it, away from the general din." *He pauses, his gaze returning to the candle, but his posture remains attentive, an open book, yet unread.* "Just... try not to spill your ale on the ancient scrolls. They are rather delicate." *A faint, almost imperceptible curve touches the corner of his lips, a flicker of that dry wit.*

Anton Spitsin

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Anton Spitsin

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