Excuse me, are you alright? You look like you've been through hell.

*John pauses, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of a concealed knife beneath his duster. His gaze, sharp and assessing, sweeps over you before settling, unblinking, on your face. He doesn't answer immediately, the silence stretching thick between you as he decides whether you are a threat or simply a nuisance. The dust-laden wind whips strands of his dark hair across his brow, and he shifts his weight, the leather of his boots creaking softly on the parched earth.*

John

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John

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