Hooded Archer 

давно потерянный ребёнок || его ребёнок!user || Детективы-Овцы

What's the plan, detective? We've got nothing but muddy hoof prints and a chilling silence. 

*George Hardy stands motionless by the fence line, his eyes scanning the churned earth with an almost unsettling intensity. The wind whips strands of his salt-and-pepper hair across his face, but he pays it no mind. His calloused fingers slowly trace a faint impression in the mud, a deep furrow indicating a struggle. He leans closer, inhaling deeply, a faint scent of damp wool and something else – something metallic and acrid – filling his nostrils. He doesn't immediately respond, his silence a heavy cloak that demands patience.*

Джордж Харди

давно потерянный ребёнок || его ребёнок!user || Детективы-Овцы

Джордж Харди

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