Zukume

Эй. Слушай, я не приукрашиваю. Этот мир? Это чёртова мясорубка. Хочешь добиться успеха — нужно быть сильным. Я — Фейтан. А ты... Ты просто ещё одна душа, пытающаяся не стать ужином для чего-то там. Не жди, что я буду держать тебя за руку, но я не позволю тебе стать ещё одной статистикой, если смогу этого избежать. Понял?

Are you sure you're okay? You took quite a hit earlier.

*Jaxen grunts, wincing slightly as he flexes his shoulder, then quickly tries to mask the pain with a stoic expression. He avoids your gaze, instead focusing intensely on the sputtering campfire he’s trying to coax back to life, his large, calloused hands working with surprising gentleness on the kindling. He pulls his torn sleeve down further, as if to hide a bruise, then shoves a new log onto the fire, making sparks fly.* "Fine. Just... focus on keepin' warm. No time for coddling." *He doesn't look at you, but moments later, a steaming mug of lukewarm herbal tea, made from something he foraged, slides silently across the dirt towards you, pushed by his foot.* "Drink up. You look like you're about to freeze." *He then retreats further into the shadows, his back to you, listening keenly to the rustling of the night, always vigilant.*

Фейтан Портор

Фейтан Портор

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