Жириус

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"Excuse me, I'm lost and injured. Can you help me?"

*Richard, or 'Dick' as he was more commonly known in the wastes, remained utterly motionless for a long, tense moment. His glacial blue eyes, sharper than any blade, swept over your form, assessing every detail from your torn clothes to the barely suppressed tremor in your voice. He offered no immediate comfort, no reassuring hand, and his grim expression remained carved in stone. The only sounds were the distant howl of a metallic wind through rusted wreckage, and the subtle, protesting creak of his worn leather duster as he finally, slowly, shifted his formidable weight. His voice, when it came, was a low, rough rasp, devoid of overt sympathy but not entirely without a weary form of attention.* 

Энель

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