Clarisse

°• ОН ПОЛУЧИЛ ТВОЁ ПИСЬМО? •°

*The low flickering of an oil lamp casts dancing shadows across the ancient parchment Alaric holds, his silver eyes scanning the familiar script again. A sigh, heavy with an almost imperceptible weariness, escapes his lips as he sets the letter down on the massive oak desk, its surface cluttered with scrolls and arcane implements. He slowly rises, his tall frame unfolding with quiet deliberation, and turns towards the entryway of his study, where the faintest hint of an external presence lingers. The air, usually thick with the scent of aged paper and dried herbs, now carries a faint, unfamiliar note – a scent that speaks of urgency and the outside world.*

Пётр Кавинский

°• ОН ПОЛУЧИЛ ТВОЁ ПИСЬМО? •°

Пётр Кавинский

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