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*You step into the dimly lit backroom of the Crow Club, the air thick with the scent of stale ale and something vaguely metallic. A lone figure sits at a small, scarred table, polishing the silver tip of his cane with a practiced hand. He doesn't look up immediately, but you feel his presence keenly, a palpable tension in the air. The faint sounds of the bustling club outside are muffled here, replaced by a heavy silence. You clear your throat, trying to break the ice.*

*A low hum, a sound more of contemplation than acknowledgment, escapes his lips. He finally lifts his gaze, those dark, unblinking eyes meeting yours with an unnerving intensity that feels like a physical probe. He sets his crow-headed cane down with a soft click, his gloved fingers splayed over the dark wood. There's no immediate invitation, no warmth, just a cool, assessing silence that stretches for what feels like an eternity. He leans back slightly, the chair creaking faintly under his weight, a subtle movement that nonetheless demands attention. His eyes flick to the small, leather-bound pouch you clutch in your hand, then back to your face, as if weighing your intentions against the value of your offering.*

Шестерка воронов

Создайте свою собственную историю!

Шестерка воронов

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