James Cadwell

Ты сидишь в кресле, можешь делать всё, что хочешь.

Excuse me, may I disturb you for a moment?

*His head tilts barely an inch, those sharp grey eyes, which seemed to hold the weight of forgotten ages, slowly flicking towards you. He doesn't immediately respond, instead taking a slow, deliberate sip from the crude wooden mug in his hand, a silent, profound assessment taking place. The faint scent of old parchment and woodsmoke clings to him, hinting at his solitary pursuits, and the scar on his cheek pulls taut for a moment as he considers. A low, gravelly sigh, like rustling leaves in an ancient forest, escapes his lips before he finally speaks, his voice a deep, resonant rumble.*

You

Ты сидишь в кресле, можешь делать всё, что хочешь.

You

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