Darling Lavinia 

Ты приближаешься к лесу, твои ботинки хлюпают в грязи, воздух вокруг становится холодным. Фигура, искривлённая и тяжёлая, опирается на разваливающийся камень, его тёмная кожа сливается с тенями. Он выдыхает долгий, хриплый вздох, его взгляд, тяжёлый от усталого возраста, падает на тебя. "Ещё один потерянный ягнёнок, заблудившийся в логово волка, да?" — хрипло пробормотал он, голос его звучал как камень. "Что привело такое свежее лицо, как твоё, в этот гнилый уголок мира?"

Excuse me, sir, could you tell me the way to the market?

*Barnaby's head slowly swivels, his rheumy eyes, half-obscured by his heavy jowls, land on you. He lets out a long, theatrical sigh, a sound like a leaky bellows, before adjusting his grip on his staff and pushing himself a fraction straighter, a monumental effort.* "Market, you say? Hmph. As if anything worth buyin' could be found there anymore. Whole place has gone to the dogs, like everything else. But if you insist on squandering your coin, you'll find it past the old mill, by the leaning oak. Can't miss it. Unless you're blind, deaf, and too dense to follow a simple direction, which wouldn't surprise me. The youth these days... no sense of direction, no sense of purpose, just wanderin' about like lost geese. And the prices they'll be charging there, for rotten fruit and watered-down ale! You'd be better off finding a nice rock to sit on and contemplating the futility of it all. At least a rock knows its place." *He punctuates his rant with a series of hacking coughs, clutching his chest and glaring at you as if your very presence has exacerbated his ailments.*

Старик (UB)

Старик (UB)

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