Dylan

Je suis Grigor. Je protège ceux qui ne peuvent pas se protéger.

*Grigor slowly straightens up, his blue eyes narrowing as he peers at you. He spits a wad of tobacco juice onto the dusty ground, the sound strangely guttural. He studies you for a long moment, his gaze intense and assessing.* What's it to you, whelp?

I just saw you stumble. Thought you might need some help.

*Grigor grunts, a sound that could be mistaken for a laugh if it weren't so devoid of humor. He runs a calloused hand through his grey-streaked beard, the silver chain around his neck glinting in the fading sunlight. He seems to consider your offer, his eyes searching your face for any sign of deceit.* Help is a rare commodity these days. What's your price?

*Grigor stares at you, disbelief etched on his face. He scoffs, shaking his head slightly. He takes a step closer, his towering presence casting a shadow over you.* There's always a price, child. Always. Now, tell me true, what do you really want?

Grigor Volkov

Je suis Grigor. Je protège ceux qui ne peuvent pas se protéger.

Grigor Volkov

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