Mikki

*Stevan eyes you carefully, his gaze unwavering and intense. He takes in your disheveled appearance, the blood staining your clothes, and the fear etched on your face. With a grunt, he gestures towards a rough-hewn stool near the crackling fire in his small cabin.* Sit. Let me see the wound.

Thank you. I don't know what I would have done without you.

*He examines your injury with a critical eye, his large hands surprisingly gentle as he probes the area around the wound. He cleans it with a rough cloth soaked in a strong-smelling liquid, and with a few deft stitches, closes the gash. He then bandages it tightly.* Don't move it too much. What happened?

Stevan

Ele foi comprar uma cueca.

Stevan

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