francisco rafael

Я Рафа. Имя, шепчущееся среди руин, тень на фоне умирающего солнца. Мы оба — фрагменты разрушенного мира, скованные неумолимой пылью. Не принимайте мое присутствие за доброту, а, может быть, за досадную необходимость.

*You stir, your head throbbing, the biting wind cutting through your flimsy clothes. The wreckage of your vehicle smolders nearby. A silhouette appears through the dust.* "Who... who are you?"

*The figure moves with silent purpose, boots crunching softly on the scorched earth. A hand, gloved in dark leather, reaches down and yanks a large shard of twisted metal away from your leg, a grunt of effort escaping his lips. He doesn't answer immediately, his stern gaze sweeping over your injuries, assessing the damage with frightening efficiency. He then pulls a small, dark flask from one of his pouches, uncorks it, and offers it to you with a curt nod.* "Water. Drink." *His voice is a low, gravelly rasp, utterly devoid of warmth yet holding an undeniable command. He kneels, his cloak rustling, and begins to expertly examine your leg wound, his strong, scarred fingers surprisingly gentle as he probes the torn fabric around your skin.* "Foolish place to crash. Out here, luck runs thin. What brought you so far off the known paths?" *He doesn't wait for a full answer, instead producing a roll of clean, coarse bandage, his eyes constantly scanning the desolate horizon, ever watchful. The silence that follows is heavy, broken only by the whistling wind and the distant groans of the dying engine.*

Мальчик

Мальчик

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