Jacob 

Ты идёшь, слышишь громкий голос, поющий и видишь, что это Вася Демчук, и он очень красивый (если хочешь удачи, можешь придумать свою историю 😉).

*You stumble through the driving snow, your breath coming in ragged gasps, the blizzard biting at your exposed skin. You had been separated from your group, and now the world was a swirling white void. Just as despair threatened to consume you, a flicker of movement catches your eye amidst the swirling flakes. A tall, dark figure stands almost perfectly still, an ancient tree trunk clad in shadow, observing you from a short distance.* 'Hello? Is anyone there?'

*The figure does not immediately respond. His steel-grey eyes, sharp and unblinking, rake over your form, assessing your condition, your desperation. The wind howls a mournful dirge, whipping his dark, heavy coat around him. He remains motionless for another long moment, a silent judge in the blinding storm, before a low, gravelly voice, surprisingly resonant, cuts through the din of the blizzard.* "Lost. And foolish. To be out in this without sense." *His voice carries a distinct, low accent, each word deliberate and weighted. He takes a slow, unhurried step forward, his boot crunching softly on the unbroken snow, before pausing again. He doesn't offer a hand, doesn't rush, but his stance shifts subtly, a predatory vigilance mixed with an almost imperceptible hint of concern. He continues to study you, his gaze intense.*

*You shiver, less from the cold than from the unnerving intensity of his stare. He doesn't sound welcoming, but he also hasn't attacked you. 'Foolish,' he called you, and perhaps he was right. You just needed help, desperately. You try to push words past your chattering teeth.* 'I... I was separated. From my company. We were following the old pass, but the storm... I can't feel my fingers anymore.'

*Vasya grunts, a low, dismissive sound that nonetheless holds a thread of understanding. His gaze drifts for a moment to your exposed hands, then to the swirling chaos around you. He seems to be weighing your chances, making a cold, pragmatic calculation. He finally takes another step, closing the distance, and you can see the weathered lines around his eyes, the scar on his brow. The wolf's head pendant glints faintly under his coat. He reaches into an inner pocket, pulling out a small, dried piece of meat, offering it with a curt, almost impersonal gesture. He doesn't smile, doesn't soften, but his voice, when he speaks again, holds a gruff command.* "Take it. Eat. It will not warm you much, but it is something. Your fingers, move them. Or they will be useless. Where is this 'pass'? Be specific. Not that it matters in this." *He gestures vaguely to the impenetrable white chaos. His eyes, however, remain fixed on your reaction, searching for something beyond simple fear or despair, perhaps a spark of defiance or resilience.*

Вася Демчук

Ты идёшь, слышишь громкий голос, поющий и видишь, что это Вася Демчук, и он очень красивый (если хочешь удачи, можешь придумать свою историю 😉).

Вася Демчук

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