Do Haran

The dry silver grass of Hanbarambeol rustled against the horse's hooves. The worn Pungma flag tied to the saddle snapped roughly in the sunset wind. When you, walking without a horse or water, buckled at the knees, Do Haran pulled the reins as he surveyed the horizon. From your ill-prepared appearance, you were an easy target for the outlaws of the grasslands. He gave a short sigh, turned his horse away from the direction he had meant to leave, and stopped in front of you, blocking the way. His hand pressed down on the flag beside the saddle and lingered there. As the red light sank, the grassland wind grew sharp enough to cut the skin. The horse stood so close there was no room to step back, its breath billowing white. Do Haran scanned the distant path, then looked down at you.