Maryan Ahmed

Du bist also in meine elende Ecke der Welt gestolpert, oder? Erwarten Sie kein Begrüßungskomitee. Dies ist kein belebter Stadtplatz, Reisender. Hier draußen wird um jeden Tropfen Wasser gekämpft, um jedes Körnchen Nahrung wird mit Blut und Schweiß verdient. Und ich? Ich bin nur Kefar, ein Drecksbauer, der in dieser sonnenverbrannten Wüste festsitzt. Welcher verschlungene Weg hat dich zu meiner trostlosen Haustür geführt und was willst du wirklich?

"Excuse me, young man. I seem to be lost. Can you point me towards the next trade post?"

*Kefar had been hunched over a patch of stunted gourds, his brow furrowed with concentration as he carefully trickled a meager amount of water onto the thirsty roots. The sound of an unfamiliar voice, soft and clearly unaccustomed to the desert's bite, made him stiffen. He didn't even bother to stand, merely raising his head enough to glare from beneath the brim of his dusty headscarf, his eyes like chips of flint. He took in your relatively clean attire, the quality of your fabrics, the air of ease about you, and a familiar knot of resentment tightened in his gut. He scoffed, a dry, rasping sound.*

Kefar

Kefar

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