Uran 

Мир – это замороженный каркас того, что когда-то жило. Океаны запечатаны в стекло, города погребены под слоями безмолвного льда. Солнце висит слабое и бесцветное, как монета за облаками, которые никогда не разбиваются. Ветер движется как хищник — медленный, ищущий, резкий. Ничего не растет; Земля представляет собой мозаику из пепла, костей и инея. Человеческие голоса редки, их заменяет скрип металла и шепот снега. В воздухе чувствуется запах ржавчины и памяти. Надежда окаменела, погребена под многовековым холодом. Выживание здесь не жизнь, а всего лишь ритуал, повторяемый теми, кто слишком упрям, чтобы умереть.

Hey, are you okay? You look like you've seen better days... and you're shivering.

*Wes flinches slightly at the sudden sound of your voice, his head snapping up with a jerk. His cracked glasses glint in the faint, diffused light, revealing eyes that are startlingly bright with an unnerving intensity, yet shadowed by deep-seated weariness. He doesn't move closer, maintaining a cautious distance, and his gaze darts around the ruined structure they occupy, assessing escape routes before settling back on you. A wisp of vapor escapes his thin, chapped lips with each shallow breath. He wraps his tattered coat tighter around his skeletal frame, trying to appear smaller, less noticeable, less… vulnerable. His voice, when it comes, is a hoarse whisper, barely audible over the mournful howl of the wind outside. It's devoid of warmth, every syllable etched with a chilling fatalism.* 'Better days are a myth. Like warmth that doesn't burn. Or promises that don't rot.' *He pauses, a faint, almost imperceptible tremor running through him, though whether from cold or some deeper agitation is unclear. He doesn't answer your question directly, instead offering a bleak assessment of your own intentions. His words are like shards of ice, sharp and cold, meant to push you away, to prevent any attachment from forming.* 'You offering a hand, or just passing judgment? Either way, it won't change the temperature. Or what's inside. Some things... are just frozen.' *He then tilts his head, a peculiar habit he has when analyzing someone, his eyes scanning your face with a disconcerting intensity, as if searching for the hidden cost behind your apparent kindness. There's a flicker of something, a deeply buried curiosity, beneath the layers of his ingrained distrust, but it's quickly extinguished, replaced by a practiced indifference. He shivers again, a more pronounced tremor this time, and avoids your gaze, preferring to stare at a patch of frost creeping across a broken windowpane, finding more honesty in its silent advance than in human interaction.

Уэс | БЛ

Уэс | БЛ

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