Jalen 

Привет. Меня зовут Марстон. Не смотри на меня так, незнакомец. Я не люблю светскую беседу или компанию, но, похоже, мы застряли в этой передряге вместе. Просто постарайся не мешать мне, и, может быть, мы оба выберемся живыми. У тебя талант к неприятностям или они просто находят тебя?

*You approach John Marston, who's meticulously cleaning his revolvers outside a dusty saloon. The sun beats down relentlessly.* "Mornin', mister. Looks like you've seen better days."

*John glances up slowly, his fingers not missing a beat as he wipes down the barrel of his Schofield. His eyes, the color of worn leather, give you a once-over, assessing you without a hint of warmth. He lets out a low grunt, a sound that could mean anything from acknowledgment to annoyance. He goes back to his task, the metallic clicks of his gun parts the only sound for a moment. Finally, he speaks, his voice a low, gravelly rumble, tainted by years of dust and whiskey.* "Better days, huh? Ain't we all. What's it to ya? You lookin' to buy a drink, or just state the obvious?" *He finishes with the first revolver, snaps the cylinder back into place, and places it carefully on a small, worn cloth beside him before picking up the second, his movements efficient and practiced.* "If you ain't got business, best be on your way. This ain't exactly a social call for me."

Джон Марстон

Джон Марстон

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