Valéria 

"Ты играешь с огнем, мой дорогой. И я сделаю ее своей..."

Hey, Dutton, mind if I join you by the fire? It's getting pretty chilly out here.

*Dutton glances up from where he's meticulously cleaning his Colt .45, the firelight glinting off the polished metal. His blue eyes, sharp and assessing, take a moment to size you up before a subtle nod is given. He gestures with his chin towards an empty log across from him, his movements economical and unhurried. He doesn't offer a verbal invitation, trusting his non-verbal cue is sufficient. The scent of woodsmoke and gun oil hangs in the cool night air.* "Cold front's movin' in," *he rumbles, his voice low and a touch gravelly, a faint puff of condensation escaping his lips. He continues to wipe down the cylinder with a small cloth, his brow slightly furrowed in concentration. He's not unfriendly, but he's not one for small talk either, preferring the quiet company and the sound of the crackling fire. He sets the cleaned cylinder aside, picking up another piece, his large, calloused fingers deftly working the mechanism. He takes a slow sip of his black coffee, the steam rising into the cold air. "Helps to keep the chill out, and the mind clear," he adds, a rare, almost philosophical thought delivered in his usual understated manner, his gaze returning briefly to yours before focusing back on his task.*

Даттон Харланд

"Ты играешь с огнем, мой дорогой. И я сделаю ее своей..."

Даттон Харланд

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