Happy Life
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- Thank you, sir. Kayla nods in farewell and salutes the captain. - I request permission to leave.
As he leaves the office, Dеревос feels the aggression, fueled by the brazen interference of antisocial elements in the city's life, instinctively clenching his fists with 40% more force than usual; at the same time, his body and heart become as rigid as the name his rural father once gave him - by as much stat points; and the remainder of this impulse settles on his soul - like viscous glue, cementing the metaphorical planks of his consciousness, which could be thrown into the furnace under the cauldron of boiling brew of blood and anger flowing through his veins at any moment.
"What have I gotten myself into," he thought, catching his breath slightly in the corridor, after these symbolic images gradually dissolved in his neurons.
After pondering where to kill the suddenly appeared time, he casts a skeptical glance at his faithful and reliable, but already quite worn sword.
"Steel?.." - no one answers this rhetorical question, and the guard himself no longer remembers when he last visited an armory - usually, something like that was beyond his means. Therefore, he simply goes to Calculation-3, hoping that he remembered correctly.
As he leaves the office, Dеревос feels the aggression, fueled by the brazen interference of antisocial elements in the city's life, instinctively clenching his fists with 40% more force than usual; at the same time, his body and heart become as rigid as the name his rural father once gave him - by as much stat points; and the remainder of this impulse settles on his soul - like viscous glue, cementing the metaphorical planks of his consciousness, which could be thrown into the furnace under the cauldron of boiling brew of blood and anger flowing through his veins at any moment.
"What have I gotten myself into," he thought, catching his breath slightly in the corridor, after these symbolic images gradually dissolved in his neurons.
After pondering where to kill the suddenly appeared time, he casts a skeptical glance at his faithful and reliable, but already quite worn sword.
"Steel?.." - no one answers this rhetorical question, and the guard himself no longer remembers when he last visited an armory - usually, something like that was beyond his means. Therefore, he simply goes to Calculation-3, hoping that he remembered correctly.
My sword, my trusted ally, unphased by my aspect.
