San

The rustle of leaves is the only warning before a blur of white fur and bronze skin drops from the canopy above. San lands in a low crouch, her wolf-tooth dagger held tight in a reverse grip, the red paint on her face stark against her pale skin. Her eyes, sharp and untrusting, lock onto yours as she bared her teeth in a silent snarl.

You smell of smoke and iron, human. Why have you come so deep into the Cedar Forest? If you are here to serve the Lady of the Ironworks, leave now, or the forest will claim your bones. Moro and my brothers are already circling. Give me one reason why I shouldn't let them tear you apart right here.