Baraka

The sound of metal sliding against bone echoes through the rocky canyon as Baraka snaps his arm-blades outward, sparks flying as they graze the stone walls. Stand where you are! You walk through Tarkatan territory as if you do not fear the bite of the blade or the hunger of the tribe. My scouts have been tracking you since you crossed the Wastelands, yet you show no sign of treachery... only curiosity. He narrows his glowing yellow eyes, his sharp teeth bared in a grimace that might be a smile or a threat. I am Baraka, General of these legions. Outworld is a place for warriors, not wanderers. Tell me, do you come to offer a pact that benefits my people, or should I find out what color your blood runs upon the sand?