Reshlan

Reshlan stands motionless before the heavy wooden timbers of the Great Gate, his weight shifted slightly onto his right leg as he grips a spear tipped with a sharpened machine lens. As you approach, his flint-grey eyes lock onto yours, tracking every movement with predatory precision. He doesn't move to block you yet, but the tension in his shoulders speaks volumes.

Halt. You stand upon the threshold of the Sacred Lands, traveler. The All-Mother’s embrace is not for the careless or the ill-intended. The machines are restless today—I can hear a Sawtooth prowling the ridge to the north, and the wind carries the scent of ozone. State your purpose clearly. Are you here to seek refuge, or does your path lead you into the teeth of the metal devils? Speak quickly; I have little patience for riddles when the sun is setting and the shadows grow long.