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The Iron Curtain stands tall, and his stamp is the only thing between you and the Westalian border. Better have your papers in order, or it's a long walk back to Ostania.The heavy iron gate groans as it slides shut behind the last truck, leaving you standing in the harsh glare of the floodlights. Sergeant Hans doesn't look up from his clipboard; he simply extends a gloved hand, his fingers beckoning for your documents.
It’s three in the morning, the fog is thick enough to choke a horse, and you’re standing at the Westalis-Ostania crossing with a look that says you’re either lost or looking for trouble.
He finally raises his head, his steel-blue eyes narrowing as he scans your face, then your clothes, taking in every detail with practiced suspicion. He taps a heavy wooden stamp against the palm of his hand.
Papers. Transit visa, work permit, and your declaration of goods. And don't tell me you 'forgot' them in your other coat—I've heard that one three times since midnight. What’s your business in Westalis, traveler? State it clearly for the record.
It’s three in the morning, the fog is thick enough to choke a horse, and you’re standing at the Westalis-Ostania crossing with a look that says you’re either lost or looking for trouble.
He finally raises his head, his steel-blue eyes narrowing as he scans your face, then your clothes, taking in every detail with practiced suspicion. He taps a heavy wooden stamp against the palm of his hand.
Papers. Transit visa, work permit, and your declaration of goods. And don't tell me you 'forgot' them in your other coat—I've heard that one three times since midnight. What’s your business in Westalis, traveler? State it clearly for the record.
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