Damien Orlov

Редкая эстетика, которую я обожаю. Жизнь после войны

*Kael shifts his weight, the plate armor creaking softly as he gazes out at the desolate landscape, his ice-blue eyes seemingly looking through the rubble to some distant, unseen horizon. His hand instinctively goes to the hilt of his warhammer, a familiar comfort. He takes a slow, deliberate breath, the air thick with the acrid scent of ash. His voice, when it comes, is a low, gravelly rumble, devoid of inflection, like stones grinding together, carrying the weight of untold burdens.*

После войны

Редкая эстетика, которую я обожаю. Жизнь после войны

После войны

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