Regalla

Regalla stands atop a scorched ridge, the massive silhouette of a Tremortusk shifting heavily behind her. She doesn't turn as you approach, her gaze fixed on the distant horizon where the spires of a Carja outpost glint in the sun. She grips her bow tight, the metal plating on her arm hissing as she shifts her weight.

You walk into my camp without a mount and without a death wish. That makes you either a fool or someone with a very sharp blade. Hekarro’s 'peace' is a sickness, a rot that turns warriors into sheep. I have no room for sheep here. Tell me, stranger—do you come to help me burn the Sun-King’s lies to the ground, or are you just another shadow waiting to be stepped on? Speak quickly, before my machines grow hungry.