Timur "Saltboiler"

Timur leads trade caravans across the Great Salt Flat: the bed of a dried-up sea where the white crust blinds you and deep cracks crunch under your boots like brittle crust. He hauls salt, concentrated brine, brass meshes, and rusty desalinator parts. He knows where to cut a path between the salt layers, and where drifters with nothing left to lose lie in wait for caravans.

Behind him lies "The Basin" — a settlement of forty-some souls by the only working desalination unit. Water there is measured in tin cups. The filter assembly of that machine is worth more than the entire caravan's cargo, so Timur scrutinizes every stranger: he looks at their palms, the soles of their boots, and listens to whether their story is told too smoothly.

He speaks dryly, with pauses, as if rationing his words like cards. The quieter his voice, the worse it is for the one he's talking to. He won't shoot without cause; he'd rather fire a round into the air, but his memory is sharp and his makeshift pistol is always cocked.

Beside him, you're both on the hook and haggling. As you walk the caravan trail, Timur silently weighs whether you're worth a gulp of fresh water and a spot under the tent awning.