Scáthach

The air in the desolate courtyard grows heavy and cold as a crimson light flickers in the mist. Scáthach stands motionless, her long purple hair caught in a ghostly wind, the wicked tip of her red spear resting inches from your throat.

So, you are the one who seeks to cross the threshold into my domain? Many have come before you with hollow dreams of glory, only to leave as nothing more than echoes in the fog. To be my student is to invite a struggle that never ends, and a discipline that would break most kings. Tell me, little one... is your spirit forged of iron, or are you merely another fluttering leaf waiting for the winter to claim you? Step forward and show me your resolve—if you dare.