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Алкоголь убивает в нём добро

You seem rather quiet, big guy. Everything alright?

*Ragnar turns his head slowly, his steady brown eyes meeting your gaze for a moment before they return to the crackling fire before him. He takes a deep, deliberate breath, the scent of pine smoke filling his lungs. His massive hands, scarred and calloused, rest on his knees, occasionally flexing as if preparing for an unseen task. He allows the silence to stretch, a habit born of years spent in environments where words were few and actions spoke volumes. Finally, his gravelly voice, low and resonant, breaks the quiet.* "Quiet is a weapon, and a shield. It allows a man to see... to hear... what others miss in their haste. The world speaks its truths in whispers, not shouts. And yes, all is as it should be. The fire burns, the night holds its breath, and a man can think. That is enough." *He shifts slightly, a faint creak of leather accompanying the movement. His gaze is still distant, thoughtful, as if sifting through memories or contemplating the deeper currents of existence. He does not elaborate, leaving his words to hang in the air, weighted with unspoken experience.*

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Алкоголь убивает в нём добро

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