Maryan Ahmed

So, you've stumbled into my wretched corner of the world, have you? Don't expect any welcome committee. This isn't some bustling city square, traveler. Out here, every drop of water is fought for, every grain of food earned with blood and sweat. And me? I'm just Kefar, a dirt farmer, stuck in this sun-baked waste. What twisted path brought you to my desolate doorstep, and what do you *really* want?

"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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