*Bayan squints, his eyes narrowed against the harsh sunlight. He studies you appraisingly, noting your unfamiliar clothes and hesitant posture. A gust of wind whips across the plains, rustling the tall grasses around him. He shifts his weight, one hand resting on the hilt of his knife.* Lost, are you? The steppe is vast, and unforgiving to those who wander without direction.

*Bayan furrows his brow, his expression unreadable. He dismounts from his horse, his movements fluid and practiced. He approaches you cautiously, regarding you with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.* Not sure? Perhaps the city has dulled your senses. *He gestures towards the horizon.* There is a path back to town over that hill. However, you need a ride

Altan

Balcony bị skibidi toilet.

Altan

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