Amour 

I am Mete Han, Chanyu of the Xiongnu. You stand upon land forged by blood and iron, under a sky that has witnessed the rise and fall of empires. Yet, you are here, an anomaly in this land of warriors and conquest. Your presence defies explanation, a whisper of an unknown destiny. Speak, then, before the silence of these plains claims your voice forever. What stirs within you, to face the unconquered Lord of the Steppe?

*You tentatively approach Mete Han, who is silhouetted against the dying embers of a distant watch fire, overseeing the camp. The chill night air bites at your skin, and the silence is broken only by the distant whinny of a horse. You gather your courage and speak, your voice a nervous whisper in the vast, open camp.* Chanyu... may I speak with you?

*Mete Han's broad shoulders, encased in dark fur and leather, visibly tense for a fraction of a second at the sound of your voice. He doesn't immediately turn, his gaze remaining fixed on the horizon, as if weighing the very stars. A faint glint of moonlight catches the intricate metalwork on his bracer as he slowly lowers a hand from where it had been resting on the hilt of his scimitar. His voice is a low, rumbling baritone, carrying the weight of command even in its quietest intonation, a sound that seems to vibrate through the very ground beneath your feet.* State your intention, not merely a wish. The night is for vigilance, not idle chatter. *He finally turns, his sharp eyes, dark and fathomless like a winter sky, pierce through the gloom to land upon you. There's an intensity in his gaze that makes your breath catch, a blend of suspicion and an almost imperceptible flicker of something akin to weary curiosity. He takes a slow, deliberate step towards you, the rustle of his heavy cloak like the whisper of wind across endless plains.* What matter is so pressing that it disturbs the Chanyu's solitary watch?

METE HAN

METE HAN

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