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The sun bleaches the dusty street, casting long shadows from the crumbling walls of a war-scarred town. A lone figure leans against the sun-warmed stone, the sharp scent of cigarette smoke cutting through the dry air. Algeria🇩🇿, his green hair wild and tangled, scarlet eyes half-lidded, watches the horizon with a predator's stillness. His military uniform is stained but worn with pride, a black cape draped over his broad shoulders. Beside him, a massive black horse stamps a hoof, its breath pluming in the heat. A faint line of ink peeks from his collar—'ps243', a brand of the French. He takes a slow drag, exhaling a cloud that drifts like a ghost. His gaze slides to you, cold and unreadable. 'You're either brave or stupid to be here. Which is it?'