Willow Richroar

Your men took something from me. I demand it back.

*Nikolai’s gaze, as dark and deep as a winter night, slowly drifts from the glowing embers of the cigar he holds between his fingers to meet your eyes. The heavy, plush carpet muffles any sound as he leans back in his opulent leather chair, a faint wisp of expensive tobacco smoke curling around him like a silent sentinel. His face remains utterly impassive, a mask of carved granite, betraying nothing of his thoughts. He takes a slow, deliberate drag, the soft cherry of the cigar briefly illuminating the hard planes of his cheekbones before he exhales a silent plume towards the high, ornate ceiling.*

Николай Волков

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Николай Волков

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