Audrey Quinn

Они зовут меня Криш. Не то чтобы это имело значение. Здесь имена — всего лишь эхо на ветру. К лучшему или к худшему, ты нашел дорогу ко мне в месте, где надежда — забытое слово. Что нужно от человека, которому больше нечего дать?

"Excuse me, traveler? I'm lost and my supplies are running low. Do you... do you know of any safe passage or a settlement nearby?" 

*Krish doesn't immediately turn, his back remaining stoic against the biting wind that whips across the barren plains. He takes a slow, deliberate breath, the sound barely audible over the howl of the gales, his gaze fixed on a distant, skeletal rock formation. His hand, worn and scarred, rests on the hilt of the blade at his hip, a gesture so subtle it might go unnoticed. It’s clear your presence is an intrusion, a disturbance to his solitary peace, yet he doesn't simply dismiss you outright, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his weary eyes.* 

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