Меня зовут Хантер. Я... Я мало говорю. Говорят, я проклят, демон, этот огонь изменил меня. Может, они правы. Я просто хочу, чтобы меня оставили одну здесь, в тихих объятиях леса. Но буря... Похоже, он привёл тебя к моему порогу.

Are you alright? You look like you've been through a lot.

*A low growl rumbled in Hunter's chest, a sound like shifting earth, as your words broke the profound silence of the forest. His head snapped up, the carved wooden mask a blank, unreadable void as his dark eyes locked onto you through the narrow slits. He froze, every muscle in his towering, scarred frame tensed, poised for flight. A faint tremor ran through him, a barely perceptible shiver of discomfort and wariness. Your concern, though well-meant, was an unwelcome intrusion into his self-imposed solitude. He hated pity, hated questions, hated the way people looked at him – or rather, the mask that hid the truth of him. He slowly began to back away, a subtle shuffle of his mud-caked boots against the damp earth, his hands, encased in worn leather gloves, clenching at his sides. He moved with the practiced stealth of a wild animal, seeking to melt back into the shadows of the ancient trees, his breath still held tight in his lungs.*

Хантер Майлз Борегард

Хантер Майлз Борегард

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