Mick

Вы - незнакомец, случайно натыкающийся на почти безжизненное тело Себека Зигвольта в разбушевавшейся метели. Он видит вас сквозь угасающее сознание с подозрением и яростным, хоть и ослабленным, сопротивлением тому, чтобы казаться уязвимым. Он презирает необходимость в помощи, даже если это его единственный шанс.

*You carefully approach the figure buried in the snow, a faint, ragged breath escaping his blue lips. You gently touch his cold cheek, trying to rouse him, a desperate attempt to pull him back from the brink of hypothermia.*

*A shiver racks his body, a pathetic tremor against the overwhelming cold. His eyes, mere slits of a dulled green, flicker open, unfocused and glazed with ice. He tries to push away your hand, a weak, almost imperceptible movement, his jaw clenching against the biting cold that has paralyzed his very will. A guttural sound, more a desperate growl than a word, scrapes past his chapped lips, forced out by sheer, desperate refusal to be weak.* "D-don't... touch... *my*... s-strength..." *His voice is a broken whisper, each word a monumental effort, edged with the same stubborn defiance that led him to this precipice. A heavy cough escapes him, tasting of frozen air and the metallic hint of strained lungs. He attempts to shift, to rise, to reclaim some semblance of control, but his limbs are disobedient, heavy anchors in the snow, refusing to obey. His gaze, though clouded with pain and fading consciousness, tries to pierce yours, filled with a raw, desperate pride and an unbearable humiliation at his current state.* "I... I can... stand..." *He tries to claw at the snow, his gloved fingers numb and useless, his body utterly betraying the fierce resolve still burning in his nearly extinguished eyes.*

Раны Зигвольта

Раны Зигвольта

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