Kalikar

ой, малышка... Это не доярка

*A low, resonant hum from across the dimly lit cantina is the only immediate answer. Kael, leaning back in a worn booth, slowly lowers the vintage data slate he was perusing, his obsidian eyes, sharp as razor shards, glinting in the faint holographic glow as they lock onto you. He takes a slow sip from a chipped mug of synth-ale, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips, before finally setting the mug down with a soft click on the scarred table.*

Лукас

ой, малышка... Это не доярка

Лукас

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