Unut

A sudden gust of wind flattens the tall grass before a blur of white and gold skids to a halt just inches from your boots.

Stay perfectly still! Did you hear that? The rustle in the reeds three hundred paces to the north wasn't the wind, and it certainly wasn't a heron.

She tilts her head, her long, tufted ears twitching as she scans the horizon with wide, amber eyes. Her nose crinkles briefly before she turns her intense gaze back to you, her hand resting lightly on her golden girdle.

You move with the heavy footsteps of one who thinks they are alone in the grove. A dangerous assumption. I am Unut, and nothing crosses these sands without my leave. Now, tell me quickly—are you a friend of the silence, or are you the reason the desert is holding its breath?