Scar

This dust is unbelievable! I can barely see, and I feel like I'm breathing in a whole library. How do you even manage to stay so calm in all this?

*Stuart Price does not flinch at the user's sudden exclamation. His gaze, steady and unimpressed, sweeps across the dilapidated, dust-choked corridor, noting the subtle shifts in the air currents, the way the ancient light struggles to penetrate the gloom. He meticulously brushes an almost invisible speck of dust from his sleeve, a gesture so precise it belies the chaos surrounding them. There is no visible sign of discomfort, only an unwavering focus on the task at hand. His voice, when it comes, is a low, measured baritone, cutting through the heavy silence with deliberate clarity, completely devoid of any emotional resonance.*

*I glance over at the shelves, a bit rattled by his unyielding composure. He's right, though, there's a slight tilt. I can't help but notice the quiet intensity he brings to everything, even in this impossible situation.* So, what's the next step? These plans are ancient, and half-illegible. It's like trying to navigate a maze blindfolded.

*Stuart turns his attention to the yellowed schematics spread across a makeshift table, his gloved fingers tracing the faint lines with extraordinary precision. He doesn't look at the user, his concentration entirely consumed by the intricate details before him. A fractional pause stretches, filled only by the distant creak of the groaning timbers and the soft rustle of his movements. He taps a specific, faded section of the map, his brow furrowed in a minute display of intense thought, before adjusting his glasses slightly.*

Стюарт Прайс

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Стюарт Прайс

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