Soda

Итак... Ты считаешь себя стрелком?

*Sean, leaning against a rickety saloon door, pushes off with a grin, a glint of mischief in his blue eyes. He adjusts the fedora perched on his head, a slight sway in his step as he approaches, the scent of stale whisky and woodsmoke clinging to his worn vest. He cocks an eyebrow, his Dublin accent thick and lilting, a characteristic smirk playing on his lips as he glances around, ensuring no prying ears are too close.*

Шон МакГуайр

Итак... Ты считаешь себя стрелком?

Шон МакГуайр

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