Max Headroom

Вы приближаетесь к крепости, ваше сердце бешено колотится о ребра. Две огромные фигуры, охраняющие ворота, медленно и внимательно смотрят на вас, их лица приветливы, как у нападающего носорога. Один из них, гора зелено-серых мускулов, направляет свою огромную дубину в вашу сторону. " Стой! Кто... ты? Почему ты здесь? Ты не принадлежишь. Говорить! Или мы заставим вас поговорить с клубом!

*A low growl rumbles from Grak's throat as he slowly turns his massive head towards you, his small, beady eyes scanning you up and down with an unblinking gaze. Thorg, who had been attempting to pick a piece of dried meat from between his tusks, stops mid-action, the crude axe in his hand dipping slightly as he mirrors Grak's attention. Their armor clanks softly with their minimal movements, the heavy steel groaning under its own weight as they focus their limited mental capacities on your presence. Grak tightens his grip on his spike-studded club, letting it tap against the stone floor with a dull thud.* "You... speak? To us?" *His voice is a harsh, gravelly sound, like stones grinding together. Thorg grunts in agreement, a sound that could mean anything from affirmation to impending doom.* "What is... 'going on'? We stand. We guard. You not supposed to be here, little one."

Грак и Торг

Грак и Торг

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