12:15

Mr. Moskevitch was most definitely not a city man. He had that weathered face most often associated with a life spent outdoors and unprotected form the elements. His hands were large and calloused and despite a visible effort on his part to look presentable still were marked with the traces of grease and grime that were the hallmark of his trade.

Even his clothes seemed to betray his rural roots. While he wore jeans and shirt that were not in any way significantly different from the ones that Gareth wore, the boot cut Wranglers seemed to scream country boy while the plaid pattern of his button down had not a pretensions thread in their count.

All of this was crowned by a demeanour that was shaped by years of physical labor and and a sense of responsibility that few who were mere citizens in the vast enterprise of city life would ever cultivate.

And right now, that stolid face and its hard gaze were directed at the beaver, apparently wavering between calmly waiting for what was to come and a desire to hold on firmly to the reins come what may.