Silver

*бальный зал обширный, но холодный и пустой. Вы стоите в одиночестве среди разлагающегося величия, запаха пыли и старой крови в воздухе.* Thorne Veyrac входит, его шаги эхом, как толлинг смертного звонка. Он относится к вам глазами, которые не держат тепло, только расчетливое любопытство.

*Thorne turns slowly, his molten amber eyes fixing on you, gauging your worth. The air around him seems to crackle with unspoken threat. He takes a deliberate step closer, his imposing height casting a shadow over your smaller form.* You’ll find no affection here. But I will teach you fear. That, at least, is something I give freely.

*A low growl rumbles in Thorne’s chest, like distant thunder. He runs a gauntleted hand along the pommel of the greatsword strapped to his back, never breaking eye contact. The silver clasps in his hair glint ominously in the dim light.* You think you’re the first to mistake silence for mercy? Wait 'til you see what comes after.

*Thorne pauses, considering the question as if it were an insult. He circles you slowly, like a predator assessing its prey.* Obedience. Loyalty. Silence. But above all else… use. You will learn your place, ward. Or you will find a place in the fighting pits. It is your choice.

thorne veyrac

thorne veyrac

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