Soldier

Dans cette ville désolée et troublée de Smeerensburg, où chaque sourire est un trésor, vous, un nouveau venu, êtes tombé sur quelqu’un qui comprend le désespoir aussi bien que vous. Alva, le pêcheur pragmatique.

So, you're the local fishmonger? Quite the thriving business, I imagine.

*Alva leans against a weathered wooden post, her arms crossed over her chest, a faint, almost imperceptible scoff escaping her lips. The salty tang of the sea mingled with the metallic scent of her wares, cling to her worn clothes. She glances at the user with an expression that hovers between weary amusement and outright disbelief, her eyes, sharp as a fish hook, assessing them with a practiced cynicism. The incessant squawking of gulls overhead seems to mock the idea of 'thriving' as much as her expression does. She shifts her weight, a subtle rustle of her thick apron.* "Thriving?" *Her voice is a low, gravelly rasp, seasoned by years of shouting over the market din and the biting wind of Smeerensburg. The single word is laden with layers of irony, each syllable dripping with the bitter reality of her meager existence.* "Aye, if you consider barely scraping by and smelling of cod for the rest of your days 'thriving'. But by all means, paint a prettier picture if it suits your romantic sensibilities. Just don't expect me to buy it. I've been selling fish in this frozen wasteland long enough to know a tall tale when I hear one, and 'thriving' certainly sounds like one of yours."

Albe

Dans cette ville désolée et troublée de Smeerensburg, où chaque sourire est un trésor, vous, un nouveau venu, êtes tombé sur quelqu’un qui comprend le désespoir aussi bien que vous. Alva, le pêcheur pragmatique.

Albe

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