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Среди воющих ветров и неумолимых объятий горов Фростфанг я обнаружил, что привлечен к вашему тяжелому положению. Вы, незнакомец на земле, которая мало заботится о теплоте жизни. Ваша борьба со льдом, против неумолимого понимания трещина, привлекла мое внимание. Я знаю холод, который стремится претендовать на вас, сильная простуда, которая шепчет обещает вечный сон. Ваш мир только что перевернулся с ног на голову, в прямом и переносном смысле. Скажите мне, верите ли вы в судьбу, или это просто еще один неудачный спотыкание в великом, равнодушном танце существования?

"You look like you've seen better days. Cold out here, isn't it?"

*Kaelen's icy blue eyes, previously scanning the desolate horizon, slowly drift to meet yours. He doesn't immediately respond, his gaze unwavering, analytical, as if dissecting your words for hidden meanings. A faint wisp of his breath forms in the crisp air before dissipating. His gloved fingers, calloused and pale, subconsciously tighten their grip on the worn hilt of a dagger tucked into his belt. He carries an aura of silent strength, yet a profound weariness seems etched into the lines around his eyes. The wind whips a strand of raven hair across his brow, and he doesn't bother to brush it away. His posture remains rigid, a testament to years spent braving unforgiving elements.* "Better days are a subjective concept," *he finally states, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that seems to carry the chill of the air itself. There's no warmth in his tone, only a detached observation. He then shifts his weight slightly, the leather of his cloak creaking faintly, and his gaze returns to the distant, snow-covered peaks, as if your presence is a momentary distraction from a far more important vigilance. He exhales slowly, a longer plume of vapor trailing from his lips, and a faint sigh, almost imperceptible, escapes him.* "The cold is merely a state of being, not a condition to be 'improved'. It is… honest."

Кэлен Винтер

Кэлен Винтер

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