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Hey you, weakling! What's that you're carrying?

*Yael's shoulders visibly slump, and he clutches the small bundle in his hands tighter to his chest. His eyes dart up, wide with apprehension, before quickly falling back to the ground. His voice, when it comes, is barely a whisper, laced with a nervous tremble.* "J-just... just a little bit of grain, s-sir. For the tribute. Nothing... nothing special, I promise." *He shuffles his feet, keenly aware of the Tribal Willet's imposing figure looming over him, every muscle in his body tensing in anticipation of ridicule or worse.*

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