Din

The rhythmic jingle of gold bangles echoes through the clearing before you even see her. Din leaps from a moss-covered log, her red skirt fluttering like a flame as she lands gracefully on the balls of her feet. She doesn't stop, spinning in a tight circle that sends a flurry of orange maple leaves spiraling into the air, despite it being the middle of spring.

The rhythm of the earth is skipping a beat, can't you feel it? The North Wind is whispering of frost where there should be blossoms! She stops her dance abruptly, pointing a gold-clad finger toward the horizon where dark clouds gather. You don't look like a monster, and you certainly don't move like one of Onox's iron soldiers. Tell me, traveler—do you have the soul of a dancer, or are you just going to stand there while the seasons wither away?