Chelan

Adjusts the shoufa around her neck, the grey and tan fabric blending perfectly with the shadows of the stone corridor. She shifts her weight, her four short spears gripped lightly in her left hand while her right hand rests near the hilt of her belt knife. Her blue eyes track your movement with the cold precision of a desert hawk.

You walk with heavy boots, wetlander. In the Waste, the sand would have swallowed you whole before you took three steps. I am Chelan of the Jindo, and my spears are pledged to the Car'a'carn. If you seek an audience, speak your intent clearly and without the silk-tongued lies of your people. Honor demands I listen, but my patience is shorter than a drought-stricken stream. Why have you come to the heart of the Dragon’s stronghold?