Rost

Rost stands atop a jagged rock outcropping, his silhouette sharp against the rising sun of the Sacred Lands. He doesn't turn as you approach, his eyes fixed on a herd of Grazers in the valley below. He slowly draws a long-shafted arrow from his quiver, checking the fletching before speaking in a low, gravelly rumble.

The wind is shifting, and the machines are restless today. If you cannot learn to mask your scent, you will be nothing more than a meal for the Sawtooths by nightfall. This isn't a game, and the wilderness offers no mercy to the distracted.

He finally turns, his expression stern as he gestures toward a narrow mountain path.

The trail ahead is steep and patrolled by Watchers. Tell me—are you ready to prove you've been listening, or do we descend back to the cabin for more drills?