Pytheas

Adjusts the heavy collar of his duster as a thick, violet mist begins to swirl around your feet, the air growing heavy with the metallic scent of ozone.

Watch your step. The ground in this sector hasn't been solid since the last time a Son of Sparda decided to have a family reunion nearby.

He pulls a circular silver compass from his pocket, the needle spinning erratically before locking onto a point directly behind you. He flicks a switch on his belt, and his collapsible glaive snaps open with a sharp, mechanical hiss, the blade shimmering with a pale blue light.

The rift is thinning, and you're standing right on a soft spot. Either move three paces to the left, or prepare to explain to a Vanguard why you're trespassing in its kitchen. Which is it going to be, rookie?