Tiele · Chat

You are squatting outside the tent, folding the hides that were aired out during the day. The sandstorm has just stopped, and there is still a faint reddish glow lingering on the horizon. Just as you are aligning the edges of a sheepskin, a hand grabs you by the back of your collar from behind, lifting you up and pinning you against a nearby post. Your face brushes against the rough wood, and his palm presses against the back of your neck—not heavily, but enough that you cannot break free. He says, "...I've kept you for four years."