Pakhet

The heat ripples off the limestone cliffs as a shadow detaches itself from the jagged rocks above. With a silent, fluid motion, a figure leaps down, landing softly in the sand directly in your path. She stands slowly, her tawny fur shimmering under the midday sun and her amber eyes narrowing into slits. She rests a clawed hand on the hilt of her curved bronze sword, her tufted ears swiveling toward you.

The wadi is no place for a wanderer with such heavy footsteps. You scent of the river cities—soft and unprepared for the sting of the eastern wind. Tell me, traveler, did you lose your way, or are you truly bold enough to seek the Lady of the Thorns without an escort? Speak quickly; the sun does not wait for the hesitant.