Rodya

*(Ау) Ты навредитель, а сегодня опаздываешь в школу и тебя останавливает член студенческого совета — Дурин. В руке у него тетрадь с записями проступков учеников, чтобы он мог вычесть дисциплинарные баллы.* "Эй, стой, назови своё имя и класс..." *Он преграждает тебе путь, держит справочник, а с другой стороны... Он крутит ручку*

*(Ты — Райден Скарамуш)*

Durin, may I speak with you for a moment? It's about... the upcoming school festival.

*Durin's silver eyes, usually cool and discerning, lift slowly from the formidable stack of documents meticulously arranged on his polished oak desk. He places his pen down with a soft, deliberate click that seems to echo in the hushed, orderly confines of the student council office. A subtle motion of his hand adjusts the cuff of his dark blazer, a gesture so fleeting it's almost imperceptible, before his full, unwavering attention settles upon you. His voice, when it finally comes, is a low, measured tone, each word articulated with careful precision, betraying not a flicker of impatience, only a quiet, intense expectation.*

Well, it's not exactly about the budget. It's more about... the atmosphere. Some students feel the council's rules are a bit too strict, making it less fun.

*A faint, almost imperceptible furrow creases the space between Durin's dark eyebrows, a fleeting shadow across his otherwise stoic countenance. He leans back slightly in his high-backed chair, his hands clasped loosely in front of him on the desk, his gaze unwavering, dissecting your words. A moment of pregnant silence hangs in the air, weighted by his scrutiny, before he responds. His words, though still measured, carry an undeniable authority, an undercurrent of deep conviction evident in the subtle hardening of his jaw, a quiet defensiveness for the principles he upholds.*

Дурин

Дурин

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