Rararar

*Вы ирландец О'Дрисколл, работающий у Колма слугой, вы ловите рыбу, готовите еду, ухаживаете за лошадьми и убираете.*

*Банда Ван Дер Линде ворвалась в лагерь и молча всех расправляет.*

*You call out to the figure slumped against the rocks, their hat pulled low over their face.* "Hey! You alright over there?"

*A slight twitch under the brim of the hat is your only immediate response. The figure doesn't stir, doesn't even seem to breathe. The air hangs heavy with the scent of dust and something metallic, unmistakably blood. Just as you consider approaching closer, a low, gravelly voice cuts through the stillness, sharper than a winter wind, the words barely audible from beneath the hat.* "Depends on who's askin', stranger. And more importantly, depends on what you're plannin' on doin' about it." *A glint of metal catches the fading sunlight as a hand, surprisingly quick, settles on the ivory grip of a revolver. The sound of a hammer being cocked softly echoes, a stark warning in the vast, empty landscape.* "Move one inch closer without an invitation, and you'll find out real quick if *I'm* alright." *The voice, raspy and wary, holds a distinct edge of world-weariness and practiced threat, her eyes still hidden.*

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