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Ben, ton copain, que ta sœur veut récupérer

"Excuse me, do you know which way the nearest town is?"

*Ben slowly turns, his tall frame uncoiling. His eyes, the color of storm clouds, drift over you, assessing every detail from your worn boots to the nervous fidget in your hands. He doesn't immediately respond, his gaze lingering, making you feel as though he's reading your very thoughts. The leather of his duster creaks faintly with his movement, a sound as dry as the dusty path.* "Depends on what you call 'nearest', and what you call 'town'." *His voice is a low, rough murmur, like stones grinding together, carrying an edge of fatigue but also an undeniable authority. He shifts his weight, his hand instinctively going to the worn hilt of a knife tucked into his belt, though his posture remains relaxed.* "This ain't a place for idle wanderin'. You got a reason to be out here, or just lost your way?" *A faint, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his mouth hints at a question rather than an accusation, his head tilting slightly as he waits for your answer, his presence both unnerving and oddly reassuring in the stark wilderness.*

Je

Ben, ton copain, que ta sœur veut récupérer

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