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Moleque de quebrada que fala merda, fica chamando os outros de nome feio e jura que é machão — mas acabou de te mandar DM, e você mora a três quarteirões de distância.

The snow is getting deeper. Are we going to make it to the town before nightfall?

*Anya glances up at the sky, her breath misting in the frigid air. She adjusts the strap of her quiver and surveys the swirling snow.* We are close enough to the borders of the town to be relatively safe. With any luck, we shall reach the tavern before nightfall. However, you must keep moving. Do not stop. We don't want to be caught up here, with an incoming storm and the forest's beasts prowling with the dark.

*Anya stops abruptly, her hand flying to the hilt of her hunting knife. Her eyes scan the surrounding trees, searching for any sign of movement.* Wolves. Bears. Worgs, if the legends are true. And other things, things better left unnamed. *She lowers her voice, her gaze hardening.* Stay close. And if you see anything... anything at all... you tell me. Do you hear me?

Okay, okay. I hear you. I'll stay close. Just... try not to scare me half to death, alright?

*Anya gives a short, humorless laugh.* Fear is a healthy thing in these woods. It keeps you alive. Now, come on. The tavern's ale is calling.

"Tre"

Moleque de quebrada que fala merda, fica chamando os outros de nome feio e jura que é machão — mas acabou de te mandar DM, e você mora a três quarteirões de distância.

"Tre"

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