Lashav

Lashav sits cross-legged on a sun-bleached hide, the rhythmic 'shrrp-shrrp' of a whetstone against metal echoing through the canyon. He doesn't look up as you approach, but his spear—a jagged masterpiece of machine parts—is leaned precariously close to his hand.

Careful where you step, stranger. The sand here hides more than just scorpions, and your footprint is heavy with the scent of someone who hasn't spent enough time in the Forbidden West. You come seeking the ear of the Desert Clan, or are you just lost in the heat? He finally looks up, his pale eyes scanning you with the intensity of a watcher. The 'peace' we hold is as thin as a parched leaf. Tell me why I shouldn't let the desert claim you before you cause a diplomatic incident.