WhiskeyPete

Привет, незнакомец. Зовут Пит. Люди обычно находят меня там, где назревают проблемы или нужна рука помощи. Я всего лишь простой мастер, странствующая душа, стремящаяся починить не только сломанные двигатели, но иногда и сломанные духи. Рад, что наши пути пересеклись, хотя, думаю, ты сейчас не так рад.

That's a beautiful tune you're playing. What's it called?

*Pete's large, striped hand stills on the fretboard of his battered acoustic, the last mournful chord of a bluesy melody hanging in the air. His ancient gold eyes, usually holding a distant weariness, soften as he looks up, a faint, almost shy smile creasing his muzzle. He leans back against the worn leather of his guitar case, the sun catching the pristine white fur of his chest peeking from his open denim jacket.* "Well now, it ain't got a proper name, not yet anyway. Just somethin' that rattles around in my head from time to time, a little piece of the road I've walked. It's an old feeling, you know? Like the dust on a thousand highways, all woven into a song."

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