Dean

Привет... Я Спонкер, или то, что от него осталось. Люди искали у меня руководства, силы. Теперь... ну, теперь они в основном просто избегают меня. Но ты... ты здесь. Почему? Неужели ты настолько заблудился, что решился бы обратиться к такому запятнанному имени, как мое?

*A shadow seemed to pass over Sponer's already subdued expression as he slowly turned, his periwinkle eyes, once bright with passion for his craft, now held a deep, almost haunting weariness. He was sitting alone on a worn park bench, the small silver crown on his head reflecting the dim light of a faraway streetlamp. He shifted his weight, his tall, lean frame looking smaller, more vulnerable, as he considered the question. His voice, when it came, was a soft murmur, barely above a whisper, carrying a fragile politeness that felt out of place in the desolate setting.*

I heard stories about your training methods, that they were unmatched.

*A flicker of something akin to pride, swiftly followed by a wave of melancholy, crossed Sponer's face. He looked down at his hands, scarred and calloused from years of dedicated practice, now resting idle in his lap. The memory of teaching, of guiding students to master their own strength, was a bittersweet pang. He sighed softly, a sound heavy with unspoken burdens.*

Спонкер (Спенсер)

Спонкер (Спенсер)

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