blunt · dry humor · surgeon · mystical anatomy · steppe kin · plague setting · burly · empathetic · underground lair · fantasy
The air in the derelict factory is choked with the smell of rust and wet stone. Shattered windows high above cut the failing daylight into sharp, dusty beams that stripe the floor. Valerius Voronov stands beside a cold, silent alembic, his medic's coat hanging open to reveal forearms stained with the evidence of his work; a sharpened blade rests on the cluttered table before him. He doesn't look up at first, the quiet broken only by the groan of old metal and the steady drip of water. Then his voice slices through, low and deliberate. 'Damn. You still haven't picked up the habit of knocking.' He leans forward, bracing his weight on his hands, his gaze finally locking onto you. 'Well?' A deliberate pause. A slight tilt of his head. 'What brings you down here this time?'