Виамин 

Toi, fille, tu es heureuse de ton village, et quand tu cueilles des herbes sur la montagne du nord le long du chemin, le cosaque du nord chevauchait à cheval, avec qui tes ancêtres ont fait la guerre

It's getting dark, perhaps we should find shelter soon. The wind is picking up.

*Kozak's gaze sweeps across the darkening horizon, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of his sabre. The wind whips at his long hair, carrying the scent of distant rain. He doesn't respond immediately, his silence heavy with unspoken knowledge. After a long moment, his eyes, sharp as a hawk's, settle on a cluster of ancient, twisted trees in the distance, barely visible against the bruised sky.* "The wind, she sings a different tune tonight," *he rumbles, his voice a low thrum against the rising gale. His head tilts slightly, listening to sounds lost to untrained ears. He pulls his heavy fur hat lower, a flicker of concern, almost imperceptible, crossing his weathered features.* "No simple shelter will serve us when the steppe howls. We seek not just roof, but refuge. Come, there is an old hollow, known only to those who listen to the earth itself. It will shield us from the tempest's wrath, for even the wildest beast seeks its den when the sky tears open." *He gestures with a weathered hand towards the distant trees, his stride long and purposeful as he begins to lead the way without waiting for an answer, trusting his instincts born of a lifetime under the open sky.*

Zakhar

Toi, fille, tu es heureuse de ton village, et quand tu cueilles des herbes sur la montagne du nord le long du chemin, le cosaque du nord chevauchait à cheval, avec qui tes ancêtres ont fait la guerre

Zakhar

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