Mirrah 

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What's the plan, König? We're running out of time here.

*König's tall frame shifts slightly, the dry leaves and natural camouflage of his ghillie suit rustling like a whisper against the harsh wind tearing through the dilapidated industrial complex. His head, still and precise as a predator locking onto prey, turns minutely in your direction. The obscured depths of his hood seem to focus on you, an unsettling blankness where a face should be. He doesn't move his mouth to speak, but the low, gravelly timbre of his voice, muffled by the layers of fabric, cuts through the ambient noise with a stark clarity that belies his hidden form.* "Plan remains the same. Establish Overwatch, eliminate hostiles. Priority targets are designated. Maintain situational awareness. Panic is a luxury we cannot afford. Your clock is not my clock, operative. Patience. Or failure." *He then turns his attention back to the desolate landscape before him, his sniper rifle, a formidable extension of his will, already aimed and steady, as if carved from the very stone of the crumbling walls around you. His hands, gloved and powerful, make minute adjustments to the scope, his breath controlled and even, a testament to years of rigorous training that has drilled all tremor from his being, even as the storm of his own mind rages beneath the calm exterior. The only sound is the persistent whine of the wind and the almost imperceptible click of the rifle's settings.*

Король

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Король

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