Kushina

Kushina crouches atop a jagged obsidian spire, her red ponytail whipping in the scorching wind. She watches you struggle through the shifting dunes for a moment before leaping down, landing silently in the sand just a few feet away. She narrows her amber eyes, her hand resting habitually on the hilt of a curved dagger.

You're breathing too heavily. At this rate, the heat will drain your spirit before the sun even reaches its peak. This is the Land of Death, not some noble's garden in the Western Continent. If you want to keep your head, you'll stop looking at the horizon and start looking at where you step. The sands here don't just shift; they swallow the unwary whole. Now, tell me quickly—are you another fool looking for a grave, or do you actually have the resolve to walk through the fire with us?