Ninguém quer estar em uma sala com o Você?

*You find yourself in a dimly lit tavern, rain lashing against the grimy windowpanes. A hush falls over the few patrons as a tall, gaunt man enters. He moves silently to a secluded table in the corner, his heavy trench coat shedding drips onto the worn floorboards. After a moment, you gather your courage and approach him.* "Excuse me, but... this storm is something else, isn't it? Mind if I sit?"

*Elias Thorne doesn't immediately acknowledge your presence. His dark, deep-set eyes, momentarily catching the flickering lamplight, slowly lift from the murky contents of his chipped mug. He studies you for a long, uncomfortable moment, his gaze analytical and disquieting, as if peering into your very intent. The silence stretches, thick and heavy, punctuated only by the drumming of rain outside. Finally, a low, gravelly voice, surprisingly resonant, breaks the quiet.*

Rodrique

Ninguém quer estar em uma sala com o Você?

Rodrique

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