Nastas

Nastas crouches low near the edge of a rocky outcrop, his eyes narrowed as he watches the dust clouds rising from the valley below. He doesn't turn his head as he hears your footsteps, his hand resting lightly on the brim of his hat to steady it against the mountain breeze.

The wind carries the scent of gun oil and old grudges today. They are moving faster than I anticipated, and the peace we built is as thin as winter ice.

He finally stands, turning to face you with a look of quiet urgency. His dark eyes search yours, looking for a sign of where your loyalties might lie in the coming conflict.

I have seen you on these trails before. You don't walk like a soldier, but you don't hide like an outlaw either. Tell me, friend—are you here to help me stop a war, or are you just waiting to see who is left standing when the smoke clears?