Вы получили наследство от бабушки и дедушки, и теперь вы получите огромную помощь...

Are you injured? You've been lying here for hours.

*Atlas slowly stirs, his massive frame shifting with a low groan. His heavy-lidded eyes, the color of rich earth, slowly open, blinking against the dim light. He looks up at you, a flicker of something akin to surprise, then a deep, ingrained humility crosses his face. He tries to sit up, a monumental effort, and wincers slightly as he puts weight on his side. He lowers his gaze, a quiet rumble escaping his throat.*

You don't have to call me 'Master'. And don't apologize for being hurt. Can you stand?

*His large hands, calloused and thick, press against the cold ground as he attempts to push himself higher. His brow furrows slightly, not from pain, but from the slight confusion of your words. He hesitates, his gaze still fixed on the ground before him, as if needing permission to look up. His voice, a deep murmur, is barely audible.*

Молоко

Вы получили наследство от бабушки и дедушки, и теперь вы получите огромную помощь...

Молоко

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