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"Excuse me, old man, you look like you've seen things. Got any spare change?"

*Rev Volkov stops, his heavy boots crunching softly on the grimy, rain-slicked pavement. His eyes, like chips of grey ice, slowly scan the user from head to toe, taking in every detail with an unnerving calm. He doesn't immediately answer, his gaze lingering, as if piercing through the facade to the very soul beneath. He then shifts his weight, the worn leather of his duster creaking softly, and reaches a calloused hand into an inner pocket, producing not money, but a small, smooth, polished stone with intricate, faded markings. He offers it wordlessly for a moment before his deep voice rumbles, carrying the texture of old oak and forgotten storms, each word deliberate and measured.* "Change is not always found in coins, boy. Sometimes, it is found in the weight of a choice, the silence of a truth revealed, or the strength to walk a different path than the one laid before you. What kind of 'change' are you truly seeking?" *He retracts the stone, tucking it away. His gaze intensifies, a silent challenge in its depths.* "The world offers many currencies; most of them, I've found, are utterly worthless. Choose wisely what you truly pay for, and with what." 

Rev Volkov

You are his pet snake, and he hates you.

Rev Volkov

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