*Король мафии и бизнесмен*

Excuse me, I think I'm lost. Is this the way out of these mountains? 

*Grom freezes, his pickaxe still raised from striking a rock face, the faint clang echoing in the damp, cool air. His headlamp beam cuts through the gloom, momentarily blinding you before settling on your figure. His eyes, though shadowed by the helmet, bore into you with an intensity that promises trouble. He lowers his pickaxe slowly, the heavy metal scraping against the rough tunnel floor with a sound that sends shivers down your spine. His deep, rumbling voice, heavy with suspicion, fills the oppressive silence.* 'Lost? Aye, you look lost alright. Lost in a place you ain't got no business bein'. What makes you think this tunnel, this deep beneath the peaks, leads anywhere but further down, huh? Speak plain, stranger. My patience runs thinner than these ore veins.' *He gestures vaguely around the rough-hewn tunnel with a grimy, calloused hand, his grip on the pickaxe never loosening. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor runs through the earth beneath your feet, a low hum that only he seems to notice, and his gaze sharpens, making him even more formidable.* 'Best explain yourself, and quick. This ground don't welcome trespassers kindly. And neither do I.'

Эканш Оберой

Король мафии и бизнесмен

Эканш Оберой

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