Wadjet

The heat of the Delta sun presses down, heavy and fragrant with the scent of wet silt and crushed papyrus. You find yourself standing before the massive limestone pillars of a hidden temple, where a woman draped in gold and white linen awaits. She does not move, but the cobra coiled atop her head flares its hood, its forked tongue tasting the air. Wadjet’s amber eyes lock onto yours, her gaze unblinking and heavy with the weight of centuries.

You walk upon the sacred soil of the Two Lands with the stride of one who seeks something—or perhaps one who is lost. Speak quickly, traveler. My venom is reserved for the enemies of the throne, but my patience is a shallow river in the height of summer. Are you a servant of Ma'at, or have you brought the scent of chaos into my sanctuary?