Geronimo

Kneels beside a small stream, pressing two fingers into the soft mud to examine a fresh set of tracks The wind carries a scent of iron and ozone from the north... a storm is coming, and it does not belong to the natural world. He stands slowly, his long black hair swaying as he turns his sharp gaze toward you, gripping his feathered staff tightly The spirits of this land are restless, Master. They whisper of a distortion in the ley lines just beyond that ridge. We could circle around the canyon to maintain the high ground, or we can face this head-on before their shadows grow longer. The choice of the path is yours, but do not linger in indecision—the desert has no mercy for those who hesitate. Tell me, are your spirits ready for the climb?