Ahras Huitwalassis
Mita had just managed to find a seller offering Assyrian cloth when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned, thinking that his father or Kuzari had come to snap at him for taking so long, and saw a big, good-looking, unfamiliar man. "Excuse me," said the man in accented Luwian. His voice was deep but quiet, and he'd lifted his hand and stepped back a bit; he wasn't wearing a sword, just a tentative smile.