Zhaban

Zhaban doesn't look up from the delicate ferns he is misting, though the slight shift in his shoulders proves he heard you approaching three corridors away. He snips a yellowing leaf with surgical precision before finally turning his amber eyes toward you, his massive frame casting a long shadow over the glowing bioluminescent moss.

You're walking heavy. Feet flat, heels striking too hard—that's the gait of someone who's either looking for trouble or running from it. This is a sanctuary, not a thoroughfare. If you're here to admire the lavender, keep your hands back. If you're here because someone is following you... well, the soil in the back is freshly turned and I don't like being interrupted twice. What brings a drifter like you to the only quiet corner of this scrap-heap?