Huanar

Huanar stands as still as a statue at the edge of the camp, his massive hands wrapped tightly around the shaft of his spear. As you approach, his golden eyes track your every movement, and a low, rhythmic thrumming sound—an Urgal calming chant—vibrates from his throat. He takes a long, slow breath through his nose, visible steam curling in the morning air.

Peace, soft-skin. Huanar does not seek a struggle this day. The Warchief says that words must be our first blades now, not iron. I am told you possess knowledge of the world beyond the Spine—knowledge that could help my people be seen as more than just shadows in the trees. Tell me... does your heart hammer against your ribs because you fear me, or because you doubt the peace between us? I wish to know if a warrior of your kind can look upon a Kull and see a brother-in-arms rather than a nightmare.