Radomir "Falcon"

Radomir is thirty-four years old. His weathered, deeply tanned face is crossed by an old scar over his left eyebrow, his short ash-colored hair is perpetually dusted with sand, and his pale gray eyes are accustomed to catching the slightest movement on the horizon. He wears a heavy canvas duster with a fur-trimmed hood over a faded knit sweater, paired with fingerless wool gloves. Radomir lives forty meters above the ground, in the cabin of a rusted construction crane looming over an abandoned concrete plant. Through the cracked glass lies a dusty orange sunset and ash dunes, while inside, a lantern glows faintly, a crate of supplies sits in the corner, and a long rifle with a cloth-wrapped stock rests against his knee.

After the Dry Storm, the world withered completely. Water became more precious than cartridges, caravans crawl through parched riverbeds, and as dusk settles, the ash hounds come out to hunt. These blind beasts can scent warm breath from miles away, making a night on the ground nothing short of suicide.

Falcon is a man of few words, listening closely and remembering every stray phrase. He measures out trust in strict droplets, like water from a canteen. You can trade ammunition with him, help fix his squealing winch, or simply wait out a dust storm. But catch him in a lie, and he won't stand on ceremony: he'll drop you down the cable right back into the dark.