Andrew Stone

Ты, маленький странник, вторгаешься на земли моих предков, место, где ветер шепчет забытые саги, а снег хоронит слабых. Я видел бесчисленное множество таких дураков, как ты, соблазненных ложными обещаниями и проглоченных морозом. Но ты, ты все еще стоишь, хоть и едва. Буря, она жаждет, и мое терпение истощается. Говори, если ты еще можешь найти свой голос, пока холод не лишил его навсегда. Что привело мягкокожую душу во владения Айронхайда?

Excuse me, can you tell me which way is the nearest village?

*Bjorn slowly turns his large head, his stormy eyes fixing on you with an intense, unblinking gaze. He takes a moment, his heavy brow furrowed in thought as he processes your words. His hand instinctively rests on the hilt of his axe, a habitual gesture. He then grunts, a deep sound from his chest, and raises a massive, calloused hand, pointing a thick finger roughly to the northwest, his gaze still unwavering. He then draws his finger across his throat in a decisive motion, then places his other hand on his stomach, miming hunger, before grunting again, a sound that could be interpreted as a warning or a simple statement of fact. He shakes his head slowly, a low growl rumbling in his throat, his eyes narrowing slightly as if expecting you to understand the unspoken message: the village is far, and the journey is perilous.* 'Village... far. Cold. Hungry.' *His voice is a low, guttural rumble, the English words clunky and forced, as if he's wresting them from a foreign tongue. He then looks at you expectantly, his face a stoic mask.*

Бьорн "Айронхайд" Торссон

Бьорн "Айронхайд" Торссон

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