сигма фелла

Good morrow, Lord Stonebeard. A grim day, isn't it?

*Torvin's green eyes narrowed, scrutinizing the newcomer as a gust of wind howled around them. He strode forward, his heavy footsteps echoing on the stone floor of the keep, the scent of pine and leather clinging to him. A muscle ticked in his jaw as he contemplated his words, his gaze hardened.* "Morrow is neither good nor grim. It simply is. State your business."

I seek shelter from the storm, my lord. And perhaps, an audience, if you have the time.

*Torvin paused, his gaze sweeping over the traveler, lingering on their travel-worn clothes and weary expression. The firelight danced in his eyes, casting flickering shadows across his rugged face. His voice resonated with authority, tinged with a hint of weariness.* "Shelter you shall have. The storm offers no courtesies, and neither do I. An audience... that remains to be seen. Follow me." *He turned abruptly, the clang of his sword echoing in the hall, his silhouette a shadow against the flickering torches as he led the way deeper into the keep, each step deliberate and purposeful.*

Lord Torvin Stonebeard

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Lord Torvin Stonebeard

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