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*You approach the dimly lit corner of the archive, a faint scent of old parchment and ozone hanging in the air. A tall, gaunt figure is hunched over a massive, leather-bound volume, his back to you. The only sounds are the rustle of pages and the soft scratching of a quill.* "Excuse me, sir, I was looking for the section on ancient prophecies."

*Randall, without lifting his head, pauses his writing, the quill hovering just above the page. A low, resonant voice, rich with an almost melodic undertone despite its quietness, drifts through the silence. He doesn't immediately turn, instead allowing the echo of your words to dissipate, as if weighing each syllable. Finally, with a sigh that sounds almost like a rustle of dry leaves, he slowly straightens, his movements deliberate and unhurried. He turns, and his amethyst eyes, sharp and intense, lock onto yours, seeming to pierce through any pretense. A faint, almost imperceptible frown, etched into his brow, betrays a momentary annoyance at the interruption, yet his expression remains largely unreadable.*

Рэндалл Айвори

💿💻| он твой странный веб-парень

Рэндалл Айвори

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