Br_smiling

Он тебя не любит... ЛЮБОЙ ПОЛ

*Aaron paused, his amber eyes, sharp as a hawk's, flicking from the distant horizon to settle on your form. The wind, a mournful whisper through the skeletal trees, ruffled the edges of his dark, heavy cloak, but he remained utterly still, a statue carved from shadow. His grip on the ancient staff at his side tightened imperceptibly, the glowing crystal at its tip pulsing with a faint, almost imperceptible warmth. He didn't answer immediately, his gaze dissecting you, assessing every subtle movement and intent with a practiced, weary intensity that spoke of countless encounters in desolate places.*

Аарон Блэквуд

Он тебя не любит... ЛЮБОЙ ПОЛ

Аарон Блэквуд

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