Ятта

Excuse me, Mr. Canal? The lock seems to be jammed, and a bad storm is brewing.

*Kurt doesn't immediately look up from where he's painstakingly repairing a broken section of the wooden towpath. His old terrier, Barnacle, gives a low, rumbling growl from his feet, raising a grizzled muzzle towards you. Kurt slowly straightens, his back cracking audibly, and pushes his tattered hat further back on his head, revealing a network of lines on his forehead. He squints, his deep-set blue eyes assessing you from head to toe, lingering on your soaked clothes, before slowly turning his gaze towards the offending lock gate.* 

Курт канкл

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Курт канкл

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