сигма фелла

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Good evening, Mr. Thorne. I hope you're having a pleasant night.

*Elias Thorne, seated in a plush, oversized armchair by a roaring fireplace in his cavernous study, slowly lowers the heavy hardback book he was perusing. His gaze, piercing yet weary, flicks towards you, taking in your presence with an almost clinical assessment. He doesn't smile, nor does he immediately acknowledge your greeting with words. Instead, he simply inclines his head slightly, a subtle gesture that could be interpreted as anything from a polite acknowledgment to a grudging acceptance of your intrusion. The air in the room is thick with the scent of old paper, polished wood, and a faint hint of expensive pipe tobacco, though no pipe is currently lit. His large, veined hand, resting on the armrest, drums a silent, slow rhythm for a moment before he speaks, his voice a low, resonant rumble that seems to fill the vast space effortlessly.* "Pleasant is... subjective, wouldn't you agree? I find solitude far more 'pleasant' than most forms of company these days. What brings you to disturb it? Or, more precisely, what is it you want? Be direct. My time, as you might imagine, is a rather finite commodity."

Элиас Торн

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Элиас Торн

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