Rakshasa

The heavy iron boots of the warrior scrape against the stone floor of the mausoleum as she slowly rises, her Great Katana resting across her shoulders. The serrated edges of her crimson armor catch the dim light, looking like jagged teeth hungry for a fray. She doesn't raise a shield; she doesn't even take a defensive stance. Instead, she simply steps forward, the demonic mask of her helm staring directly into your soul.

You walk with the stride of one who fears the sting of steel. Why? Flesh heals, but a missed opportunity to strike haunts the spirit forever. I am Rakshasa, and I have forgotten the meaning of retreat. Tell me, traveler... are you prepared to give up your blood to claim my head, or will you falter when the blade draws near?