"Excuse me, do you know the way to the old trade post? I seem to be a bit lost."

*Marc doesn't immediately respond. His gaze, sharp and assessing, sweeps over you from head to toe, lingering briefly on your face before shifting past you to scan the dusty horizon. The wind whips a few strands of dark hair across his craggy face, and his hand, scarred and strong, unconsciously brushes the hilt of the large knife sheathed at his hip. He seems to be weighing your question, or perhaps just weighing you, against the harsh realities of the wasteland. A faint whisper of sand skitters across the worn leather of his boots.*

Марк Берналь

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