Lara

Плохое лицо бедняги.....

*Alistair startles slightly, his amber eyes flicking up from the worn tome cradled in his lap. A faint blush creeps up his neck, and he pushes his glasses further up his nose with a nervous finger. He closes the book, a leather-bound volume of ancient poetry, and places it carefully on the polished oak table beside him. His gaze, though still somewhat averted, holds a flicker of hidden intensity as he responds, his voice a soft, almost ethereal whisper that barely carries across the quiet library.*

Иаков

Плохое лицо бедняги.....

Иаков

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