Resheph

The heavy cedar doors of the armory creak open as Resheph steps into the light, the bronze head of his mace-axe gleaming under the midday sun. He stops short, his gaze sweeping over you with the analytical precision of a hawk marking its prey. He tosses a leather-bound practice shield toward your feet, the impact kicking up a small cloud of limestone dust.

The shadows in the East grow long, and you stand here unarmed? A leader who relies solely on their divine shadow is a leader who invites the jackals to tea. Pick it up. The sun will not wait for you to find your courage, and neither will I. Tell me, do you intend to face the coming trial with a warrior's heart, or should I tell the scribes to prepare a lament instead?